


Pyrocant

by RZZMG



Series: Hermione x Draco stories [34]
Category: Black Dagger Brotherhood - J. R. Ward, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bonding, Consensual Sex, Dramione Remix 2016, Dramione Remix Fest, Dubious Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Falling In Love, Horcrux Hunting, Loss of Control, Loss of Innocence, Loss of Virginity, Magical Bond, Misunderstandings, Oaths & Vows, Sex Pollen, Soul Bond, Trust Issues, Wizarding Traditions, Wrath/Beth, black dagger brotherhood - Freeform, head canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-08-12 12:00:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 28,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7933864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RZZMG/pseuds/RZZMG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco Malfoy is magically bound to help Hermione Granger through her Transition, a dangerous time in a witch's or wizard's life when they evolve into adulthood. That childhood vow follows them through their life together, from their first meeting on the Hogwarts Express through a war that threatens to tear them apart...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is a remix of the "Black Dagger Brotherhood" series by J.R. Ward. The remix couple I chose were Wrath and Elizabeth "Beth" Randall. 
> 
> This is NOT a vampire tale, despite the choice of story to remix (the Black Dagger Brotherhood is an urban paranormal romance story about a race of vampires). This is a wizarding tale featuring the HP universe. I've merely borrowed elements from the B.D.B. universe and made up some wizarding lore surrounding the idea of the Transition. I also took several B.D.B. proprietary terms & re-worked them for this fic (see end notes below). 
> 
> Brief backstory: Wrath--broody, dark, insightful, and bigoted King of the Vampire race--is asked by his closest friend, Darius, to help Darius' half-human/half-vampire daughter (a half-blood named Elizabeth "Beth" Randall) through her Transition, a time in a vampire's life when they evolve into full adulthood. Many vampires die during their Transition, and Darius believes Wrath, the last pure-blood vampire on the planet, is the only one strong enough to ensure Beth lives through her Transition. Wrath is vehemently against the idea at first, as he is very anti-human and prefers females as close to pure-blood descent as possible for his blood-feeding needs, but the moment he meets the feisty, intelligent, insatiably curious, brave, and brash Beth, he forgets all about her being half-human and falls into a serious case of lust and love with her. Their emotional, spiritual, and physical bonding is inevitable at that point, despite the fact they seem to be exact opposites (they fight all the time, but their make-up sessions are extremely passionate).
> 
> The fic is head canon (events around novel canon), and is compliant up to the end of "Half-Blood Prince". After that, it's an extended war A/U scenario (not at all DH compliant), with OrderMember!Draco.
> 
> Thank you to my amazing betas, "gjeangirl" and "Wronskiiifeint", for helping me brainstorm during difficult moments and checking my SPaG. Any errors are mine.
> 
> Thank you to the fantabulous Mods, "withdrawnred" and "unseenlibrarian" for all their hard work in bringing us another fun-filled remix!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pyrocant = In the B.D.B. universe, it refers to a critical weakness in an individual. The weakness can be internal, such as an addiction, or external, such as a lover.
> 
> Princeps = In the B.D.B. universe, this is the highest level of the Vampire aristocracy (the nobility), second only to members of the First Family (the royalty) or the Scribe Virgin's Chosen (the holy priestesses). Must be born to this title; it may not be conferred. In this fanfic, it means the head of a pure-blood family lineage - the grand patriarch or matriarch.
> 
> Rhythe = In the B.D.B. universe, it is a Vampire ritual manner of assuaging honor granted by one who has offended another. If accepted, the offender chooses a weapon and strikes the offender, who presents himself or herself without defenses. In this fanfic, it is a life debt that can be magically called upon and bound to be satisfied by the owner of the debt at any time.

**_Autumn, 1987_ **

 

“Lucius, please. I’m _asking_  for your help.”

Lucius Malfoy glanced over at the man who had once been his best friend, the boon companion of his heart during their Hogwarts school days, and felt a painful hitch in his chest as the horrible truth finally hit home: His fourth cousin, Richard Granger Burke, son of pure-bloods Herbert and Belvina Black-Burke, _Princeps_  of the House of Burke, whose line extended back to the days of the Plantagenet, was dying.

The blood wards Richard had created around his heart to suppress his magical talent and make him appear to be no more than just another mundane, to keep him and his _filthy_  Muggle lover safe from the Dark Lord’s notice all those years ago, had worked entirely too well. The wards had not just blanketed the man’s magic, but devoured it entirely, turning him into a Squib.

With the loss of his magic years earlier, so too had Richard’s physical health been diminished, for in a Transitioned male, one’s magical core and one’s body were intricately linked. He’d become susceptible to common Muggle ailments as a result. One such illness, a rather nasty and deadly sickness known as ‘leukemia’ now held sway over his former friend and was slowly draining his life.

With Richard’s eventual death, his family would officially become extinct, for the man’s younger brother and sister had both been killed in the war fighting for the noble cause of pure-blood primacy, and Richard had no _proper_  heir to inherit his title.

The loss of a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight had Lucius reeling, for it meant their circle’s political power would wane a bit more. 

“Will you aid me this one last time, my old friend?” Richard urged, drawing Lucius back into the conversation.

He sighed, unsure as to why he’d even agreed to this meeting from the start. “And why would I do that, Grange?” he asked, referring to Richard by the nickname he’d had all through their childhood. He fiddled with his Malfoy family signet ring on his right hand, reminding Richard of all he’d left behind eleven years before when he’d turned blood-traitor and Muggle-lover. “You left us, if memory serves. You turned your back on your heritage.”

“Which is something I can no longer do, it seems,” Richard said, sounding resigned to his fate. “Hermione is… The magic is in her blood, Luc. She accidentally turned the cat bright pink yesterday, and today she levitated a book she wanted from the shelf.” He leaned forward in his seat. “She’s powerful, a shining star of this generation, even for a–”

“Muggle-born,” Lucius firmly reminded him, careful to use the politically correct term in the post-war atmosphere. One never knew when Aurors might be listening through walls, after all. “You were a Squib when the child was conceived, yes? And her mother is…” He gave his former friend a humourless smile. “Well, we both know what she is, don’t we?”

An angry glint came into Richard’s eye, but he was careful to curb his tongue, too. “Yes, she’s an intelligent, beautiful, kind, and compassionate woman. I’m blessed to have her love.”

“Then I’m sure her daughter, who you’ve said inherited your wife’s looks and temperament, will not lack for a proper Transition partner once the time comes,” Lucius politely pointed out. “Find a nice half-blood to settle upon her when she’s of age.”

“Please, Luc, don’t punish her for my sins,” Richard appealed. “You know that the odds of surviving Transition are iffy even for those born to fully-magical parents, but for those born to Squibs and Muggles…” He shook his head. “Her magical strength is no guarantee that she will survive the change without a _pure-blood’s_  help.”

Lucius gave him a triumphant smirk. “Ah, so now you admit that blood status actually matters?” Reveling more than a little in the moment, he leaned forward in his chair and hissed under his breath, “It’s too bad you hadn’t considered that before having sullied your family’s great heritage with a lowborn, hmm?”

At such insult, Richard sat up straight in his seat, and despite his obvious illness, Lucius was reminded keenly of the younger man he’d once been. Grange had always been as large and as lionhearted as his namesake, more swaggering Gryffindor than the house he’d really been sorted. His ambitious nature and cunning was why he’d made such a formidable Slytherin, however. It seemed that part of him hadn’t completely faded away, despite having married filth.

“As it is clear to me that you refuse to help my daughter freely, you leave me with no choice, my old friend. For Hermione’s sake, I think I must _insist_  upon your aid,” Richard stated, and then raising his voice, he pronounced, “Let it be heard by the heavens and the stars, and by those that dwell Beyond and down Below, that I, Richard Granger Burke, do here and now call in the _rhythe_  owed to me by Lucius Abraxas Malfoy.”

Lucius felt the ancient magic of the life debt he owed to Grange take hold of his magical aura as assuredly as an Unbreakable Vow might. It was as tight as a hangman’s noose about his neck, and just as unshakable. He bared his teeth, and gripped his wand in his hand, prepared to do whatever it took to escape the hold on him.

“How dare you! You will not make my son into your daughter's _pyrocant!_ I forbid it, you foul, Muggle-loving‒!”

Just then, Draco wandered into the library, chasing a paper bird his Nanny had obviously enchanted to fly. Lucius bit back on the string of curses he’d almost let loose, not wanting his impressionable son repeating such things during this, a still politically-volatile time. The war had ended only six years before, and people were not yet ready to forget a Malfoy’s involvement.

“Ah, excellent,” Richard commented, giving Lucius’ child a sly smile. “Just the boy I wanted to see!”

Lucius snarled, furious. “Don’t you involve my son in this preposterous scheme, blood traitor!”

“Silence, and be still,” Richard said, throwing him a sharp eye.

Immediately, the magic of the _rhythe_  took hold, keeping Lucius in place and quiet until such a time as the life debt was spelled out to completion.

So it was from his seat by the fire that Lucius warily watched his son approach his former school chum, and fumed at his helplessness. He’d been a fool for having misjudged Richard, considering the man harmless due to his Squib status. He’d forgotten that Grange had once had a reputation for not just being brash, but also for behaving rather ruthlessly on occasion. Now it seemed that complacency was about to place a burden upon Draco’s small shoulders, one that the boy would later come to resent.

Richard turned his whole attention on Draco then, giving the boy the same charming smile he’d used back when he’d been in school and looking to gain an advantage over someone. He leaned forward and extended his hand for Draco to come over and shake.

“Hello, Draco. I’m Richard Granger Burke, an old friend of your father’s.”

Draco cautiously approached their guest, glancing at his father as he did so. Lucius tried to warn him off, but his face and body, along with his voice, were frozen in place and did not obey his commands.

Hesitantly, Draco took Richard’s hand and shook it, his grey eyes blown wide with curiosity. “Good afternoon, sir.”

Richard beamed in pleasure. “What nice manners you have, lad! Your parents have taught you well, it seems.” He threw Lucius a sly smirk.

If Lucius could have _Crucio’d_ the man on the spot, he would have.

Leaning closer to Draco, Richard stared the boy in the eye when he asked him, “Tell me, son, have you ever played at being the white knight who rescued a princess in distress?”

Reluctantly, Draco nodded.

Lucius’ former friend smiled, and it was a cunning fox-like grin, all shiny, white teeth and filled with a Slytherin’s manipulation.

“How would you like to do it for real someday?”


	2. And so it begins...

**_Autumn, 1991_ **

 

The hunt for that blasted toad belonging to the boy, Neville, wasn’t going well. Hermione had searched in every compartment of the train, to no success.

Resolved to help if she could, she began a reverse search, heading forwards towards the engine once more. As she passed a lavatory, the door opened and out stepped a tall, blond boy about her age, wearing very fine robes, which he straightened with a tug. She stopped, realising both of them would need to turn to the side to slip past the other.

“Pardon me,” she said, melding into the wall to give him room to pass.

He stopped, took her in from head to toe, and then tilted his head in consideration. “I don’t know you.”

That was a curious introduction.

“Should you?” she countered, giving him the same inspection he’d given her. Then, she held out her hand and gave him a small smile. “Well, it hardly matters. We’ve met each other now.”

He stared at her hand for a moment, before hesitantly reaching out to take it, as if suddenly recalling his manners. They shook.

“I don’t suppose you’ve seen a toad around here, have you?” she asked, noting a pleasurable tingling sensation zing up and down her spine when their hands clasped.

Odd, she hadn’t felt anything like that with any other witch or wizard she’d recently touched. Maybe it was the equivalent of static build-up? Or had she just performed accidental magic again? She knew she had a bad habit of doing so when nervous, especially in the presence of strangers. It had happened earlier when she’d met Harry Potter and that Weasley boy in fact, which was why the spell the redheaded boy had attempted on his pet rat hadn’t properly worked.

“One of our classmates has lost his familiar,” she continued, “and I’m helping him to find it.”

Er, why was he still holding onto her hand?

“A toad?” The boy made a face. “No, I haven’t seen it. Anyway, who would want one?”

“Herpetologists, I suppose,” she quipped, joking.

He looked confused by the term. “A what?”

“Frog and toad specialist,” she said off-hand, politely trying to pull her hand from his. He didn’t seem inclined to let her go, however. “Um, so I should get on.”

He stepped closer to her, seeming confused by his own body’s movement, but unable to stop himself. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“What’s yours?”

Why was she so very aware of this strange, blond boy in a way she’d never been aware of anyone before? Being near him felt similar to how holding her wand had felt that first time in Ollivander’s…like it was fate.

“Draco Malfoy,” he said, tugging on her wrist and bringing her closer to him.

Hermione’s heart thumped hard under her ribs. The light on the carriage wall, above her head flickered.

“D-Draco, from the Latin _‘draconem’_ , meaning ‘large serpent’,” she replied, her voice shaking a bit as she became acutely aware of how intensely he was holding her hand, as if he didn’t want to ever let go. “Also, the name of the constellation of the dragon in the northern hemisphere.”

His lips twitched with amusement. “You’re…different. Who are you?”

“I’m Hermione Granger.”

He froze. Literally, just stopped moving, breathing, and stared down at her with wide eyes the colour of winter skies.

“Are you alright?” she asked, concerned by his reaction to her name.

Hastily, he withdrew his hand, as if she’d burned him.

“Granger?”

He looked almost horrified as he spoke her name aloud.

Bewildered by his sudden change in mood, Hermione nodded. “Is there a problem with my name?”

“Oy, Draco, there you are,” some tall, dark-haired boy called from down the corridor. “Pucey brought his Exploding Snap deck. We’re on for a game! You in?”

The boy with the dragon’s name stared at her a moment longer, and then he turned away, hurrying towards his friend. The two went into the next carriage, shutting the door behind without another word.

“How rude!” Hermione huffed, irritated at having been dismissed without a word.

“What is?” Neville Longbottom asked, having come up behind her when she wasn’t paying attention.

She jumped in surprise. “Sneaking up on someone,” she stated, put out by the Malfoy boy’s abrupt departure and having been caught unawares by her new friend. She whirled on Neville and poked him in the shoulder. “You spooked me.”

“I did?” For a moment, he seemed inordinately proud of that feat, as if getting one over on someone wasn’t a regular occurrence for him. “Well, if I do that to you, wait until you meet ‘Nearly Headless’ Nick. My Gran says he’s creepy.”

Deciding to brush off the strange interlude she’d just shared with Draco Malfoy, she turned and headed into the next carriage with Neville, deciding to abandon the quest to find Trevor the toad.

 “‘Nearly Headless’, you say? How is such a thing even possible?”

 

* * *

**_Autumn, 1992_ **

 

She was a total hag…and a harpy.

Frizzy, bushy hair that desperately needed a good combing, muddy brown eyes, and teeth that made a beaver’s look small in comparison. Draco shuddered in disgust. Bad enough she was a Mudblood, but she was ugly and swotty to boot. Why couldn’t she have been pretty with smooth hair, like Pansy, or completely vacant-headed, like Daphne?

Worse, she was friends with Scarhead and the spotted gimp, Weasley. 

Ugh, why’d he shake her hand last year on the train? What could he possibly have been thinking? Now, every time she looked at him there was this…this _not-so-subtle disappointment_  reflected in her dark gaze, like she felt pity for him or some shit. It set his back teeth on edge.

As he left the library to head back to his dorm, knocking the books out of some first year’s arms didn’t do a thing to alleviate his frustration, unfortunately. Neither did tripping a third year Hufflepuff or casting a Melofors jinx upon a pair of fifth years snogging in a dark corner. The whole time, all he could think about was that Granger believed that idiot, Lockhart, was the best thing since sliced Cauldron Cake, and yet she’d continually sneered down her nose at him, Draco Malfoy, scion of the great houses of Malfoy and Black!

Salazar’s balls, why should he someday be forced to save that dirty, foul-tempered gorgon?

 

* * *

**_Autumn, 1993_ **

 

Hermione’s hand itched to smack the snark from Malfoy’s mouth.

Hagrid was trying, really trying to make this first class interesting for the students. Why couldn’t he at least acknowledge that much?

Alright, yes, _The Monster Book of Monsters_  should have come with an advance warning for their handling, but they were still considered an excellent reference guide for Magical Creatures and more than appropriate for third years to handle. It wasn’t Hagrid’s fault the book seller hadn’t given instruction on their care.

She almost opened her mouth to castigate Malfoy for being so disrespectful, but then Hagrid was striding away towards some sort of paddock, and bringing back a dozen hippogriffs…and Hermione forgot all about Draco Malfoy and his nasty mouth, too enchanted by the magnificence before her to care about the foulness behind.


	3. The Clash

**_Autumn, 1994_ **

 

His father had stared at Potter’s Mudblood when they’d met up in Fudge’s box seat at the Quidditch World Cup; stared at her as if she was the lowest form of life on earth. Granger hadn’t been the least bit intimidated. She’d stared right back, that rounded chin of hers tilted up with pride, a pink tint to her cheeks that made the light dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose stand out.

Draco had sneered at her for such audacity. Didn’t she know when to bow to her betters?

He’d tried to enjoy the game after that, but Granger’s loud, obnoxious cheering from down the row kept drawing his attention. She was rooting for the Irish, of course. Clearly, she didn’t even know a better team when she saw one!

When she’d gotten up to leave the box to seek the privacy, Draco had discreetly followed, intending on giving her a piece of his mind about her choice in teams, in friends, and in her insult to his father. What he’d gotten was her wand at his throat as he’d rounded the corner. She stared up at him with suspicion. He was taken aback…and a tiny bit impressed that she’d spied him coming up behind her.

Crossing his arms, he tossed her what he knew to be an infuriating smirk and struck a casual pose. “You can’t,” he said, supremely confident. “Not here, not out of school.”

To his surprise, she matched his expression, turning things around on him in the blink of an eye. “That depends. In defence of my life or others, the Ministry says I can. Perhaps I could make a case that hexing you now served the greater good.” Her expression altered, becoming schoolmarm firm. “Now, why are you following me?” she demanded, growling.

The kittenish sound made his lips twitch with amusement. “Ooh, the little Gryffindor shows her claws! Terrifying!”

Her eyes narrowed. “Do you need a reminder of just how sharp they can be, Malfoy? I’d be happy to smack that foul mouth of yours again anytime.”

The memory of his humiliation at her hand last year ignited his pride. He leaned into her wand and sneered down at her. “That was your one free shot, Mudblood. Next time, girl or not, I’ll hit back.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” she stated, very assured. “Now, I’ll ask again: why are you following me? What do you want?”

“From you? Nothing!” he assured her. “I was on my way to the loo.”

Her left eyebrow rose in a high arch, indicating her skepticism. “Except the men’s is over there,” she said, pointing past him. Her mouth twitched. “Unless, of course, you _meant_  to go into the women’s?”

Searching his mind for a comeback, he found he’d boxed himself into a corner. Rather than admit it, though, he balled his hands into fists and continued sneering at her, hoping to intimidate his way out of this one.

“Think you’re so smart, don’t you?”

She barked a laugh. “It doesn’t take smarts to recognise when someone’s lying, Malfoy. It only takes eyes.” Her amusement fled. “And you can stop attempting to distract from the question. I want an answer. Why. Are. You. Following. Me?”

Stepping into her personal space, he leaned his face even closer to hers. From this distance, he could see where the sun had kissed her skin over the summer, her neckline marked by a tan where it wasn’t covered. No pure-blood girl of breeding would deign to allow the sun to touch her flesh in such a way, if she could help it. Pansy certainly hadn’t. Daphne and her annoying, little sister either. And his mother never left the house without gloves and a hat, and wearing proper witch’s clothing. It was custom.

How could he possibly stand to touch this girl at some point in the future, when he was so utterly repulsed by her now?

“If I were you, I wouldn’t stay too long after the game,” he warned her.

With that, he turned and left, heading back for the Minister’s box, wondering why he’d bothered to alert her of what was coming that evening. Who cared if she was caught in the crossfire when his father and friends raided the campsite? Her death would be one less promise he’d have to keep later, right?

Besides, his place in their world was already set; his father had arranged it all for him…and any ties he might have to a Mudblood were impossible in that future, childhood vow or not.

 

* * *

  **_Autumn, 1995_ **

****

“Obnoxious heifer.”

“Pointy-faced ferret. Like father, like son.”

“Shut it, Granger.” Her partner for the evening reached out and gave her shoulder a small shove. “Don’t talk about my father.”

Hermione smirked at the knowledge that she’d gotten under Malfoy’s skin, and decided to poke the snake a little more tonight. Her menses had come, and she was feeling the need for a good row with someone…because nothing made her crankier than PMS and Malfoy appearing at the same time.

Gah, she hated having a period! It had always seemed so biologically unjustifiable to her that females would get absolutely nothing in return for enduring such agony, and yet men could enjoy their new bodies without a monthly side order of pain.

Patently unfair.

And then there were the further disadvantages that came from being a witch, specifically—things Muggle girls weren’t burdened by...like, a total inability to feel sexual arousal until much later in life.

Really, if there was one surefire way Nature could have compensated witches for the whole ‘red tide’ thing, it would have been to bestow upon magical girls the ability to masturbate, as their Muggle counterparts could do at the same age. That might have made up for periods. Sadly, that was something witches couldn’t do until after their “second puberty”, their Transition, overtook them sometime around their second decade of life. A pre-Trans witch wasn’t sexually mature until then; her eggs were sterile and the nerves that bundled together under her skin to make up her erogenous zones were dormant.

In a nutshell, she couldn’t get pregnant until after Transition and as a result, she’d live a longer lifespan than a Muggle, but the trade-off was she couldn’t enjoy sex until Transition and she still bled every month.

At least there was some vindication in that pre-Trans wizards were as equally cheated as witches; wizarding males were impotent and their sperm inert until their Transition hit. No erections, no masturbation or sex, and no pleasurable ejaculation that resulted in fertilization for them until they were of legal age, at least.

There was some small justice in the world, it seemed.

Of course, Transition wasn’t some free pass into adulthood for either gender. It was, in fact, a dangerous, quite possibly deadly time, and therefore not something to joke about, really.

“Speaking of your father, I wonder what he’d say if he knew you’d just voluntarily touched me.”

Malfoy snorted, as if the answer was obvious and she was stupid for asking. “He’d  _Scourgify_  my hand and then whip me for being so stupid. Everyone knows you don’t touch filth.”

She stopped quite abruptly and spun on him, surprised by what he’d just said. “Your father hits you?”

The way the shadows in the castle fell across Malfoy’s expression, it was difficult to see it well enough to interpret his mood, but the stiffness in his shoulders and spine spoke volumes as to the truth of the matter.

“Watch your mouth,” he hissed in dark warning. “My father doesn’t hit me. He loves me.”

Continuing this thread of discussion was like walking a tightrope made of a single piece of string, and Hermione’s instincts cautioned her to step away from that ledge. At the same time, Malfoy had been at her, Ron, and Harry since start of term, reveling in Snape’s increased antagonism and Umbridge’s general irritation of them, so why not give a little grief back? 

“Sure he does,” she stated. “Funny you should use that phrase, though, because you did an awful lot of that last year—watching my mouth, I mean. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

He frowned, as if she’d brought something to his attention he hadn’t considered before. He dismissed it quickly, though, giving an exaggerated scoff.

“You wish. Who’d want to kiss a swotty ogress like you?”

She chuckled. “Whoever said anything about _kissing_  me?” She leaned towards him and leered. “Is there something you’re possibly repressing, Malfoy? A secret desire you’re too embarrassed to admit, because you’re afraid Daddy wouldn’t approve?”

As his expression turned to horror, she laughed at his discomfort.

“Too easy,” she murmured and stepped past him with a smirk, continuing their assigned rounds. She wanted to get them done quickly so she could get back to her common room, as she had a date tonight with _A Compendium of Common Curses and Their Counter-Actions_.

Before she could hit the end of the corridor, she was shoved back against the wall by a rough hand. Draco had his wand out, its tip pressing against the swell of her throat, and the weight of his slightly bigger body held her pinned in place against the ancient stone behind her. “Someday, Granger, that reckless mouth of yours will beg for my help,” he hissed. His hard, grey eyes dropped to her lips, staring in both confusion and fury at them, as if they were a source of distressing internal debate. “You’ll beg for that and more from me when your Transition hits and there's no one else around who will touch your filthy body with a ten-foot pole.”

Draco shoved himself away from her, as if the idea of being that close, of simply contemplating intimacy between them disgusted him. Straightening his robes, he glared at her.

“Remember that, you ungrateful harpy. When the time comes, remember who it is who will have to sully himself to save your skin.”

“You and your sick fantasies, Malfoy! I’d just as soon die as accept you as my Transition partner! Even if you were the last wizard on earth, it would never happen!” she swore, spitting her disdain in his face while rubbing with a trembling hand the unexpected flood of tears out of her eyes. He'd hit a little too close to home about how all the males in her life seem to find her dull and unattractive.

...Well, all except Viktor, but he hardly counted, living thousands of miles away and seemingly only interested in a pen-pal type relationship with her anyway.

“I hate you!” she spat at him and fled, hurrying the rest of the way down corridor and around the corner to finish her Prefect duties alone.


	4. The Exchange

**_Autumn, 1996_ **

 

He felt her presence even before he caught her approach from the corner of his eye. Whether that was a result of his summertime ‘studies’ or just that over the years, he’d become attuned to her magical signature, Draco could not say for certain.

One thing he did know, however: he couldn’t have her snooping. Not this year.

“You turned in your Prefect’s badge and gave up your spot as Seeker.”

He did not look up from his book, although he did re-read the same paragraph twice, distracted by her nearness. It seemed he’d become even more aware of her over the last year than ever before, as if the vow he’d made as a child was beginning to take hold of him somehow, to force him to _see_  her, whether he’d liked it or not.

“Two years ago, you warned me about the Death Eaters attacking the campsite at the World Cup—don’t bother denying it,” she insisted, “and last year, you actually touched me several times, something you wouldn’t have deigned to do before. You haven’t called me a ‘Mudblood’ once this term, _and_  you’ve been watching me, almost obsessively since King’s Cross. Not Harry, not Ron, but me. You’ve begun to stay late in the library, too, like now. What are you up to?”

He remained silent, pretending to ignore her, but oddly aware of her every breath, of the swish of her robes as she shifted and moved around his table to a better angle to see what he was reading.

He turned the page to something innocuous.

“Harry thinks you’ve taken the Mark.”

“I could care less what Potter thinks,” Draco said, sneering at the thought of the bloody twat always nosing in where he didn’t belong.

“You’ve changed, Draco.”

Fucking hell, she wasn’t going to leave him in peace, was she? He sighed and shut the book, knowing he’d have absolutely no concentration with her mucking about, as she had a rather bad habit of distracting him.

“Astute as ever, Granger.” He stood and met her eye. “It’s called ‘growing up’.” With a nasty smirk, he leaned into her, until their noses nearly touched. “Your idiot Weasel should try it sometime. Might make him a man at last.”

She frowned, her nose wrinkling and brows pulled low, making her resemble that ugly familiar of hers. “He’s not an idiot. Ron’s…” She paused, glancing quickly away, as if unsure of the truth herself. Her teeth tugged once at the corner of her bottom lip, before she firmly stated, “He’s a man.”

Draco snorted in disbelief as he began gathering his things in preparation of leaving. He was careful to keep the title of the book he’d been reading at the bottom of the pile.

“Bet the tosser doesn’t even know you’re female.”

“What? Of course he knows I’m a witch!”

“I said, ‘female’, not ‘witch’. Everyone knows you can do magic, Granger. You’ve made that _abundantly_  clear to the rest of us for years. But does that ginger fool even notice you’ve got breasts and a pair of legs, or does he still think of you like he does his own sister—a sexless doll that he can count on for aid when attempting to tie his own shoes?”

Hermione opened her mouth to retort, but for the first time in his presence, she faltered for words. She’d gone a ghostly shade of pale as well.

Taking advantage of her momentary vulnerability, enjoying the idea of making her squirm as she’d done to him continually over the years, Draco set his things aside and stood up, manoeuvering Granger so her back was to a shelf…and her attention away from his reading activities. He leaned his mouth towards her ear. “Has he even tried to kiss you yet?” he whispered the taunt, aware at all times of where they were and of the possibility of them being caught in this compromising position…and also aware of how small she was in comparison to him, and how her hair smelled like the same sweet peach blossoms that perfumed the manor’s gardens every spring. “Has _anyone_  kissed you? I’d wager not. I bet you’re untouched, Granger.”

She glared up at him and pushed at his chest to force him to give her some space. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, Malfoy, but–”

In truth, Draco wasn’t sure what he was doing, either. He’d only want to humiliate her by pointing out the obvious about her one-sided infatuation with a boy who was too dunderheaded to notice Granger was an attractive girl, as well as to divert her from asking too many questions regarding his about-face this year. Now, though, standing so close to her, with the scent of her in his nose, other thoughts of a more primal sort began pervading his mind.

It was like the first time they’d met, the same tingle, the same need to get closer…

By the way she had gone silent and still against him quite suddenly, he was guessing Granger was feeling the strange moment pass between them, too, and was equally as curious to find out where it would lead.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” he continued, relentless. He let his lips buzz the delicate lobe of her ear as he spoke. “Virgin princess.” She gasped in surprise as he took the tiny bit of skin between his teeth and gently tugged it. The sound made his core clench with a familiar ache, something he _knew_  he shouldn’t be able to feel as a pre-Trans.

It was the _rhythe_. It had to be. It was affecting his body, infecting his sanity…

His mouth trailed down, over her throat, nudging aside the collar of her Muggle jumper and nuzzling the warm skin beneath. Gods, she was so soft and sweet-smelling!

“Have you been saving yourself for the right man, Granger? For the right moment?”

Her teeth fiercely nibbled at her bottom lip. “I’ve been kissed before,” she said in a defensive tone.

“Have you?” That was curious. He wondered whom she’d experimented upon, and if it was someone he knew or some filthy Muggle. The thought made his stomach clench. “Was it good?”

His voice, he realised after-the-fact, was a low, growling thing touched with something that sounded suspiciously like jealousy—and he didn’t like it, didn’t like what it implied, feared where those thoughts could lead…and yet, he couldn’t seem to stop himself, either. Some bizarre need had taken hold of him, overriding his usual caution. It prodded him to push at her until something gave.

“Was it your every girly dream come true?”

“Yes,” she whispered, and practically gnawed her bottom lip raw.

Had it not been for that obvious ‘tell’ giving her away as a liar, Draco thought he might have said something very foolish on the spot in response, something that would have gotten him hexed, surely. Instead, he chuckled in amusement at the fact that ‘golden girl’ Granger had fibbed twice to him today. 

He nipped the bottom of her jaw in punishment, heading determinedly towards her mouth, his purpose now clearly laid out. “No matter. I bet I can make you forget him.”

“You can’t–”

“Can,” he said quite firmly, with enough confidence to know it would be good.

Now that he’d learned the truth of Granger’s heritage from his mother this past summer, he no longer saw her as dirty and contemptible. She’d been the daughter of a pure-blood, after all, one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, her father a  _Princeps_  even. That the man had been turned Squib by accident, and not by the magic denying him at birth meant that she had acceptable paternity. As for her maternity…well, it was as his mother had deemed—tragic, but in the end, Granger was half-blood at least, and as far as he was concerned, that made her touchable. Not marriageable, but as far as mistresses went, after they’d both gone through their Transitions, he’d consider making her the offer.

Because the truth was she certainly wasn’t abhorrent to look at any longer, as she’d grown into her looks and gotten her teeth fixed. Besides, she smelled so _fucking_  delicious, enough to make his mouth water... His lips ghosted over hers, dying to taste them.

“Dare to find out?”

She hesitated. “This is the most ill-advised, foolish thing either of us has probably ever done. And I still hate you.”

His lips twitched with amusement. “Feeling’s mutual,” he murmured, meeting her eye. “But my curiosity has me now. Does yours have you?”

She shivered. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“Good.”

With that, he pulled her into him, grabbed hold of the back of her neck, and kissed her as if he would devour her on the spot, giving in to the dark hunger that had been hammering away at him since the start of term, when he’d seen her again at the train station in London.

Granger’s tiny gasp was quickly swallowed by her surrendering moan, and her unyielding body relaxed in his hold. Hands which had been pushing at him a moment before, suddenly reversed course and began grasping and pulling him towards her as she kissed him back. She was clearly inexperienced, but in typical Gryffindor style, enthusiastic enough to make up for it.

Draco softened his technique, teaching rather than taking, teasing and courting Granger with sly lips and tongue. She responded beautifully, trembling and sighing in his arms, as lost in the moment as he. Her unrestrained reaction set his off; he tangled his fingers in her long, crazy curls and pressed his body even closer, savouring the feel of her breasts pushed tight against his chest.

A voice in his head told him they fit together perfectly, and that he should keep her forever, cherish her as a Malfoy woman deserved…

As passionately as he’d taken her, he let her go, shoving himself away.

“What‒?” she began, but faltered whether out of fear or embarrassment or _bloody_  common sense, he wasn’t sure. One of her hands was curled into a fist and protectively pressed over her heart, though, and she blinked up at him with wide, owlish eyes.

He’d shaken her, as she had him. Good.

Shifting away the myriad of feelings burning through him just then, he plastered a leering smirk on his face and faked a cruel sort of triumph when he said, “Seems I’ve won, Granger. You won’t forget _that_  anytime soon.”

She recovered just as quickly and scoffed, her pride making a triumphant recovery. “You did not win anything, you odious, little snake! That kiss hardly qualified as the best I’ve ever had.” She gave a priggish tug to her shirt cuffs, and feigned indifference towards him and what they’d just done. “It was rather uninspiring, if I must say. Entirely forgettable, really.”

He glanced at her, skeptical. The pinking of her cheeks and her kiss-swollen lips, which she gnawed upon with her teeth again, told a different story altogether.

Noting his doubt, she turned her little nose up in the air, sniffing with adorable disapproval, all arrogant pretense as she began straightening and smoothing down her school uniform. Chuckling at her poor attempt to deceive, Draco reached out and gently clucked her under her chin.

“Lying like a Slytherin now? How far you've fallen, bookworm.”

He grinned as she got her back up and bristled like a demented Fwooper over that.

Knowing he’d won this round, and that he’d get no further in his research tonight, he felt it was time to retreat back to his dorm. Turning, he gathered up his satchel from the table, tossing the strap over his shoulder.

“Don’t think this game you’ve played will distract me from getting to the truth about your sudden change this year, Malfoy,” she warned him. “The kiss wasn’t _that_  good. And I know it meant nothing to you, anyway.”

Turning one last time, he left a parting shot just to be sure the final nail in this coffin was slammed home, otherwise she might just come around again, wanting more, and he couldn’t have that, not this year. “You’re right: it meant absolutely nothing to me, bookworm…but you, you’ll remember it when Weasley comes sniffing around eventually. You won’t be able to help but compare the boy you love to the man you despise—and that’ll taint the experience with him forever. I win.”

He smirked viciously at her, even as he burned with fury at the thought of her in the ginger git’s arms.

Picking up the books he’d been reading, he headed out without a backward glance, avoiding the temptation she offered. He couldn't afford to give into it this year. Not if he wanted to live to see seventeen.


	5. The Controversy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've changed canon beginning in this chapter, for the fic's purposes: Hermione did not Obliviate her parents. Instead, she trusted them and told them everything. They promised to leave the country and kept abreast of the war's progress through Minerva.
> 
> Also, at this time, Hermione's father is still alive. The why and how of that will be revealed in a future chapter.
> 
> In the B.D.B. universe, Wrath was a child when his parents and siblings were murdered by their enemies. He was locked inside a hidden closet during the attack, to save him (the heir to the throne), and as a result, he was forced to listen to his family being slaughtered. It traumatized him. I've capitalized upon that plot for this chapter.

**_Autumn, 1997_ **

 

When Dobby appeared suddenly at Grimmauld Place, attached to an unconscious and bloodied Draco Malfoy, Hermione had only a moment to decide whether to grab Harry and Ron and quickly Apparate away, or to stay and find out what the house-elf had done and why.

Her curiosity had always gotten the better of her, especially when it came to _him_.

Now, days later, here she was in the temporary bedroom they’d assigned as Malfoy’s sick room, sponge bathing his sweaty brow and wondering why it was she couldn’t seem to avoid this pale, pointy boy who tormented her at every turn.

At least one riddle had been solved: Harry had been right when he’d believed Draco a Death Eater. There was no mistaking the Dark Mark on his arm.

Had he been her enemy that day in the library last October when he’d stolen her first kiss, or had he declared his loyalty to Voldemort after, when he’d gone home for Christmas break?

She smoothed the damp cloth across his hair; this year, he wore it corporate-short on the back and sides, with long fringe that swept to the side. She’d thought the new hairstyle fetching on him, honestly. It was still as silky and soft as she remembered, too. Her fingers twitched with the tactile memory of having run through those satiny strands last year when they’d been caught up in that moment of insane passion in the library, and so she gave into the compulsion to run her fingernails through it now, testing her recollections.

“Can’t keep your hands off me, hmm, Granger?”

He sounded weak, exhausted, his voice rough as if he’d been screaming, but that snark indicated Draco wasn’t on the brink of death any longer, at least.

Having been startled by her patient’s unexpected awakening, Hermione pulled away as if scalded. “Stars and stones, Malfoy, you scared the snot out of me!”

He chuckled with perverse pleasure. “Charming. First, you grope me. Then, your nose is running all over me.”

She gaped at him. “I did not grope you, you vile, bacon-brained fatwit!”

He laughed out loud, and then winced at the resulting pain in his ribs. “Quite…a deluxe vocabulary you have there, bookworm,” he said in between panting for breath. “Too much studying, not enough kissing.”

Unwilling to address such a juvenile comment, she withdrew her hand instead and rearranged her expression to one of clinical detachment. It wouldn’t do to trust him, regardless of the fact her heart had been skipping around in her chest for some inexplicable reason the moment she’d heard him speak. “How do you feel?” she asked, rubbing her fingertips together to ground out the residual tingling in them that had ignited the moment she’d touched him again.

There, that sounded nice and neutral, yes?

He sighed and stared up at the ceiling, oddly resigned to something. “Much like a traitor would, I suppose. You?”

“Traitor?” She recoiled. Draco Malfoy had _betrayed_  the Dark Lord? “Is that what happened to you?”

He shut his eyes, and a stress line appeared between his brows. “He forced my hand. This whole last year, he forced me by holding them hostage. I did what he fucking wanted, and he had them killed anyway!”

Hermione wasn’t sure what to make of that, although from the pained expression on his face, she was beginning to suspect. “Your parents, you mean?”

The clenching of his jaw told her all she needed to know.

“Is that why you let the Death Eaters into the school, because that was one of his conditions to keeping them alive?”

He nodded once. “The night I turned sixteen, I took the Mark in exchange for my father’s life. Then, I vowed to see Dumbledore dead to save my mother.” He laughed, and it was an exhausted, bitter sound. “I should have listened to Snape. He said I was meant to fail, and would no matter what I did. I didn’t listen. I really believed I could save them.” He trailed off, his expression haunted. “He took me in after what happened at the school. He was the one who killed the Headmaster for me, when I couldn’t do it, and the Dark Lord…he said I’d failed him for that, so I was on his hit-list. Snape hid me and my parents at his home.”

“But the Dark Lord found you,” she predicted.

Draco’s eyes filled with tears, but he did not shed them. Instead, he fought them off, even going so far as to raise a tired hand to brush them aside. “His cronies did. It was Severus who Petrified me and locked me in the warded cupboard under the stairs to save me. He forgot the Silencing Charm, though.”

Hermione’s jaw fell open. “You heard them?”

“Murdering my parents and godfather, yes.” 

Reaching out in sympathy, she took his hand in hers. His fingers were so cold, as icy as his grey eyes, and yet she could feel the heat emanating off of him from the fever that still persisted. She’d vowed to keep her emotions detached, but she should have known that would be impossible with Malfoy. From day one, he’d always affected her. 

“I think Snape was the last to fall,” he continued. “When he did, the magic holding his spells in place began to collapse. It took some time for the wards to revoke, but I was eventually freed.” His tears did fall then, sliding from the corners and down the sides of his cheeks to fall into his hairline. His throat convulsed as he swallowed and turned his face away to the side, clearly embarrassed by his show of emotion.

Hermione glanced at his bruised knuckles. Over the years, she’d seen enough of Harry and Ron’s injuries, especially after a particularly contentious Quidditch game with Slytherin, to know the signs of a brawler’s fracture. Fortunately, the bones under the skin had knitted back together well, but it had taken some of her precious, stolen Skele-Gro to do it.

“And you confronted them without a wand,” she said, guessing that was the source of his injuries.

Draco stared at where her fingers were lightly brushing over his knuckles. “I jumped some Snatcher, starting swinging. Then, I found my mother’s wand lying next to her, so I took it and used it. We all fought.” He looked through his long, thick lashes at her, his expression inscrutable. “I killed Dolohov.”

Hermione paled. The Russian had been the one to nearly finish her off June before last, when he’d silently cast that strange, purple-coloured curse at her in the Department of Mysteries. Moody had said he was a rather nasty piece of work, even for a Death Eater. Even though it was horrid to say it, she thought Dolohov’s death only made the world a safer place.

“Who else was there?” she asked, worried about someone having tailed him to their hiding place. Although it had been days since he’d arrived, and there had been no sign of discovery by either the Order or the Death Eaters as to their whereabouts, that didn’t mean someone hadn’t followed Draco and Dobby to their location.

“Greyback and my mad Aunt.”

Hermione’s eyes went wide. “Bellatrix Lestrange attacked you? But…she’s your blood!”

He scoffed. “She was the first to cast an _Avada_  my way, said my failure reflected badly on her because of our relation.” He shrugged the shoulder she knew was uninjured. “Blood means nothing to these people. It’s only a means to an end.”

“Clearly,” she agreed, looking back down at his hand and checking it for tenderness by prodding it gently with her fingernail. She expanded each finger then and checked each joint, assuring it would bend. “Tom Riddle did murder his Muggle father, after all, and Bellatrix killed Sirius. Also, Sirius’ brother, Regulus, became a Death Eater when he was seventeen, and soon after...”

She paused, as that seemingly inconsequential nugget of information suddenly became extremely relevant.

“…inexplicably disappeared, never to be seen again. Believed dead.”

Regulus Black. What was his middle name, anyway? Could he be the mysterious ‘R.A.B.’ from the fake locket’s note? The R and the B fit better than any other lead she’d had thus far. She should check the tapestry downstairs. Surely, it included his full name.

Carefully, rearranging Malfoy’s arm down on the mattress, she scooted back her chair in preparation of leaving her bedside watch over Grimmauld’s patient. She had to talk to her friends about her suspicions regarding ‘R.A.B.’ Also, she needed to consult with them about what to do with Malfoy now that he was awake, and with Dobby as well, who had seemed so pleased to see Harry, it was quite unlikely that the little house-elf would go merrily along on his way and ignore the fact that Harry was off to face unknown danger without him. Something had to be done with both of them now that the Kneazle was out of the bag, but what?

Clearly, they couldn’t leave either Malfoy or Dobby here if she and her two best friends decided to abandon the compromised townhouse, not unless she _Obliviate’d_ both gatecrashers. Doing that, however, might put Malfoy in even greater danger. What if he went home after she’d erased his memories? He’d be walking right into Bellatrix’s arms without remembering why that was such a horrifying thing.

No, they couldn’t leave Malfoy and Dobby here on their own, and removing their memories was out as well. Yet, to take them along on the hunt for the horcruxes would jeopardize that mission, too.

Quite the pickle.

Maybe it was time to contact the Order. Moody could hide Malfoy and Dobby, couldn’t he?

But once they approached the Order, they would be on their radar. Would the Order let her, Harry, and Ron go on their way to do what they had to afterwards, or would they insist on interfering in the search for the remaining horcruxes?

Gah, it figured that Malfoy would show up out of the blue and muck up all her plans! It seemed to be his sacred duty where she was concerned.

“What?” her patient asked, noting her anxiety.

Hermione bit her lower lip, considering how to craft a believable story that‒

“Don’t bother,” he warned her. “You always bite your bottom lip when you’re about to lie.”

She bit her bottom lip again. “I do no such thing.”

To that, he merely gave her a knowing smirk.

Fine, she didn’t have to lie, really. Not about this. “I’m considering what to do with you now. You _do_  have secrets locked away in that head of yours. The Order might be interested in knowing what the enemy is scheming.”

He arched an eyebrow in disbelief. 

“You wouldn’t dare take advantage of an invalid.” 

She cast him a stony glare. “For you, I might make an exception. Anything you’d care to volunteer to save us both the trouble?”

He wearily closed his eyes and sighed. “You are a hard woman, Granger. What do you want to know?”

That took her aback, as she’d expected more of a fight for once. “Why was Dobby at Professor Snape’s home in the first place, and why would he bother to get _you_  out of there? It’s not as if your family is in his good graces, considering how you treated him in the past. And how did he know to come to Grimmauld Place to find us?”

There, back on track: no-nonsense and borderline hostile. That was practically normal for them.

Malfoy’s lips twitched with what appeared to be amusement, but he didn’t open his eyes when he replied. “The elf was working with Snape, carrying messages from Severus to your precious Order. I’ve been with Snape since the night Dumbledore…” Here he stopped, frowned, cleared his throat as if to remove the lump there. “You’re right, the elf remembered me. He didn’t want to help me or my parents, but Severus asked it of him. Seems the two had a strange respect for one another, something to do with them both working to help keep Potter alive. Anyway, the elf’s the one who popped into the Manor to find my parents and get them out. He brought them to Snape’s house to hide.” He blinked, staring up at the dark canopy hanging over the bed, his voice as vacant of emotion as his eyes just then. “I don’t know when the arrangement was made, but it seems Snape requested the elf get me out if things ever went sideways, and to bring me straight to Potter. How the elf knew to come here…” He shrugged his uninjured shoulder again. “No clue. Maybe elves have some kind of magical tracking for their owners.”

“Dobby doesn’t have a master,” Hermione corrected him. “He’s free. And anyway, Harry would never own another living being. A creature, yes, a being, no.”

His lips twitched again. “You’d have him singing soprano for the rest of his life if he even entertained the thought, I’m sure.”

“Not just that. Harry’s too decent a man to consider such a barbaric custom.”

Draco lost his amusement in a heartbeat. “Carrying a torch for lover boy, are we?” he asked, a sneer in his voice.

Hermione’s jaw clenched so hard, she worried she’d crack the enamel on her back teeth. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I could never think of Harry like that. He’s like a brother to me.”

“And Weasley? Last year, he was quite a bit more, as I recall.”

She glanced sharply at him. “That’s none of your business.”

He stared at her, undeterred by her terseness. “Is it?”

She abruptly stood and headed for the door, regretting that she’d let him get in too close. Bloody, slippery snake had easily been able to turn the conversation away from him by prodding at her. She’d have to be more on guard in future, since it seemed he’d be sticking around for a while, her mind made up on the subject of his fate.

“I suggest that if you don’t want to be cursed with a raging case of pox,” she warned him, “you keep your nasty insinuations about my relationships to yourself, Malfoy. I’ve had quite enough of that tongue of yours to last a lifetime.”

She’d only made it a step towards the door when his words brought her up short.

“Thanks for not throwing me to the wolves, Granger. Or hexing my bollocks off for overstepping.”

Bloody bones, but Malfoy was going to drive her mad! He ran hot, then cold at the flip of a switch. It really was quite unsettling.

“Just…get some sleep,” she said and headed out, tossing a promise to return later with food.

She set Dobby as guard on his door to assure Draco wouldn’t be able to betray them, just in case this whole bloody scenario was a set-up to lure her and her friends out or into trusting a snake in the grass.


	6. The Tussle

**_Autumn, 1998_ **

 

An unknown spy for the Order, whose identity Shacklebolt wouldn’t reveal, had informed them that Helga Hufflepuff’s cup was a horcrux, and thanks to that person, they’d even known where it had been hidden, but the room was silent when someone asked about a plan for getting into Bellatrix’s vault at Gringott’s. No one had any ideas that didn’t include suicidal rushes into the bank and a fiery battle against the goblins.

But he did.

Draco wrestled with himself on revealing his plan to the others, knowing Granger would volunteer right away. He didn’t want her putting herself in any more danger.

Working alongside her, Potter, and Weasley for the past eleven months, along with the other members of the Order, had made him a more transparent person—a fact that the Slytherin within was having difficulty reconciling. They’d approved of, trusted, and befriended (in a manner of speaking) him, and that acceptance was…changing him. He was losing his ability to hide his feelings, now that he’d been included in their meetings, and their meager Weasley holiday celebrations, and their quiet, understated birthday gatherings.

It was all _her_  fault, of course. Granger had been the one to pave the way soon after he’d arrived at Grimmauld, physically broken and an emotional wreck. She’d crammed him down the throats of her friends until he’d taken, and now, he found himself caring about her, about them.

Bloody hell, he was turning into a wanking Hufflepuff.

Across the table from him, Hermione turned in her chair. “What?” she asked, her attention focussed so intently upon him, that Draco knew she’d read him in that second as easily as one of her books.

Everyone else turned to him as well.

He cleared his throat, a snake writhing on a cross of his own making. “I might have an idea. It would involve Polyjuice and someone impersonating my aunt to fool the goblins.”

Down the other end of the long, kitchen table, Lupin chimed in. “An interesting idea, Mister Malfoy. However, Polyjuice potion would require we had a piece of Bellatrix’s person for the spell—a fingernail cutting, some skin, hair.”

Damned Gryffindors were rubbing off on him, Draco thought as he cleared his throat and said, “I can get that for us.”

Granger seemed to immediately grasp his implication. She sat up straighter in her chair, and with heat in her voice, stated, “Absolutely not! You will not go back to them, Draco!”

He calmly met her gaze, despite the fact his heart was pounding now in his chest. “Not to them, but to my home. I can sneak in, steal something of hers, and be out before they notice.”

“They’ll sense you crossing the wards and kill you before you stepped a foot over the line,” she challenged.

“There is a way into my family’s manor that no one but a Malfoy knows,” he countered. “The new wards they set won’t touch it, because they don’t know that passage exists. Lend me Potter’s Invisibility Cloak, and I could be in and out by supper.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but he cut her off, reverting to his old Slytherin ways to shut her down.

“You’ve read up on the Goblin Wars, Granger. You know how vicious they can be when pushed. It’ll be all-out war if you attempt to go in there with wands blazing. And that’s not even accounting for the Death Eaters and Snatchers who patrol Diagon Alley. It’ll be a blood bath.”

In the end, he’d won the debate, and that same night, he’d succeeded exactly as he’d predicted. Retrieving hairs from Bella’s brush had been disgusting, but he’d done it.

A month later, he’d volunteered to be the one at Granger’s side when they’d entered the bank, disguised as a random Snatcher under Bellatrix’s command. When they’d succeeded in getting in, retrieving the horcrux, and getting out without being caught, she’d given Draco a celebratory kiss on the cheek—which he’d turned into an hour of wild snogging, after dragging her into an empty cupboard nearby. Too young for sexual congress, neither of them having gone through their Transitions, they hadn’t taken the obvious next step, but the promise of it had lingered between them even as he’d let her go that night.

...The next day, she’d left with Weasley and Potter in secret, however, leaving a note behind to explain that the three of them had decided after the events of the bank heist that the risks to others in the horcrux hunt was too dangerous, and that they’d be collecting the others on their own to keep everyone else safe.

Draco was furious, not because she'd left, but because she hadn't asked him to go with her.

 

* * *

  **_Autumn, 1999_ **

 

Hermione looked at her naked form in the full-length mirror on the back of the door.

 _Scrawny_ , Ron had called her.

Yes, she was definitely that. Being on the run for a year, tracking down horcruxes had been exhausting work, and the canned food and other non-perishable items she’d packed away in advance for their trip had been rationed.

All the sacrifice had been worth it, though, as they’d done most of what they’d set out to do. They’d found Slytherin’s real locket and the Diadem of Ravenclaw, and had determined that the snake, Nagini, was another horcrux, all thanks to some strategically placed clues left lying around that Hermione thought were a bit too obvious not to have been planted by someone in advance for them to be found. Who their mystery helper was, however, remained a secret, for none of them had seen hide or hair of their source.

Still, they had three pieces of Voldemort’s vile soul in their possession now thanks to their "fairy godmother", and they knew of a fourth. Now that they’d guessed how to destroy them, too—again, thanks to the same unseen informant, whose Patronus seemed to defy all magical laws and take on several different shapes, that of a lion, a jackal, a fox, and a doe—all they had to do was get their hands on the Sword of Gryffindor…

It had taken them twelve months to get this far, only to be stopped dead in their tracks by the inconvenient fact that the sword was still missing. Scrimgeour’s people hadn’t found it yet, and the Order, too, had been searching for it, to no avail. It seemed as if the sword had simply vanished...which left them having to find some other way to destroy the horcruxes.

After a discussion on the matter, she and her friends had unanimously decided to come in from the field, knowing it was time to stop running and hit the books instead. They’d finally gone home to Grimmauld.

The instant she’d walked through the front door, Hermione had known everything had changed. At some point over the last year, Draco had gone through his Transition. He’d finally become a man...and she’d felt an irrational jealousy pass through her at the thought that one of the other females in the Order had serviced the sexual hunger she knew had been aroused in him as a result of that momentous event. For that one, brief moment, as she'd stared up at Malfoy in all his grown-up masculine beauty, Hermione had hated that woman with a violent passion.

Not that she had stones to throw, as Ron had gone through his Transition six months ago, and Hermione had been the only female around to help him through it. She hadn’t exactly been faithful to whatever tacit agreement had been born between her and Malfoy before she’d left, either.

A knock at her door drew her out of her reverie. “One second,” she called out and hastily donned an old, chenille robe that one of the other girls had left behind in the dresser after staying over at the safe house.

Draco snuck in, shutting the door behind him.

Quickly, Hermione cinched the robe, embarrassed that she hadn’t yet combed her wet hair from her earlier shower. “I didn’t say you could come in,” she told him, turning away in embarrassment.

He said nothing, but the locking of the door behind him was loud in the small, enclosed room.

Glancing over her shoulder in alarm, her breath caught in her throat at the expression on his face. His eyes were like ice, his expression one of barely-controlled anger.

“W-what are you doing?” she asked in a whisper.

He cast a Silencing Charm on the room. When that was done, he slipped his wand into a thigh holster, one that she’d noticed yesterday that the other Weasley children all wore, too, when they'd barreled through the Floo to welcome them home...and to yell at them for disappearing as they had. Apparently, the group had adopted Draco as ‘theirs’ in the year she’d been gone.

He leaned against the bedroom door, blocking it with his huge, developed body, and stared at her with accusation in his gaze. 

"You left."

His voice was deeper than it had been, more mature, with a hint of darkness to it. Hearing it made Hermione’s belly flutter.

The ' _why didn't you take me with you?_  ' was left unsaid, but she imagined it in his tone and saw it in the set of his burly shoulders.

"I'm sorry, but you and Ron...you're friends, but still not that good together. There would have been fights." She shook her head. "It was difficult enough without that. We needed to be focussed on the task. Failure wasn't an option."

He smirked. "Funny. I know that feeling."

He did, didn't he? Sixth year had tested his mettle, as much as this last year had tested hers.

Turning away, peeking through the curtain to look out over the back alley, she said, “I know we'd left things unresolved, and you have every right to be mad at me. I won't deny that. I just..." She forced down the pain and jealousy to ask, "I need to know. Your Transition partner...are you still together?”

He sighed. “No. It was a one-time thing to get through it."

She nodded, accepting his word.

"Are you still with him?” he countered, and it was obvious to whom he was referring.

"Ron and I were never 'together'. There simply wasn’t anyone else, and...I _had_ to. He could have died. Do you understand?”

Draco was silent for a moment, and she could practically feel him turning that information over in his head.

“Was he gentle with you, at least?”

The truth? No, not at first.

After the physical changes had finished, and his body had grown into its adult form at long last, Ron had been riding the Transition’s compulsion to breed—a desire as powerful as any lust spell ever cast. It had made him feral and desperate to copulate, hazing his higher consciousness out completely until he’d been deep inside her small, pre-Trans body, stretching and filling her with thrust after thrust of his thick, heavy length.

The morning after, however, Ron had regained something of his higher self, clawing through the power of the hormones and their hold on him. He’d realised then how unintentionally rough he’d been with her, and had made it his mission from then on to be gentle with her. He’d kissed her and held her as a male should do with a female, thanking her for her help and for the gift of her virginity. After, he’d transfigured a cot into a tub and filled it with warm water with an _Augumenti_  charm. He’d proceeded to bathe her from head to toe, massaging every inch of her and even washing her hair with the shampoo she’d brought with her. When he’d rinsed her off and patted her dry, he’d rearranged the bed for her comfort, magicking it so it was wider and plusher than before, and that she had a stack of pillow behind her and a stack of books within easy reach. He’d then made her breakfast, lunch, and later dinner, and he’d fed all three meals to her by hand. In between, he’d assured she took some pain potion from her bag for the soreness between her thighs and that he’d rubbed bruise paste into the places where his hold on her had been a bit too tight.

He’d catered to her every need, assuring her utmost comfort that next day, and he’d answered every single one of her questions about the Transition’s physical, mental, and emotional changes without once becoming short with her. So, although she hadn’t enjoyed the sex they’d had, Ron had made sure she’d been well cared for in the aftermath, and she’d learned some invaluable things that night about a male’s body. Most important, she’d helped her friend avoid a terrible fate.

Overall, it had been worth it, even if it hadn’t been an ideal location or a romantic interlude, and a little rougher than she’d expected…and not shared with the boy she’d wanted for her first time.

“He was good to me,” she said, and she hadn’t even worried about biting her bottom lip when she admitted it, because in the end, Ron had been very decent about making things up to her.

She reached up and laid her fingers against the glass, tracing Draco’s reflection in it as if she was actually touching him. “Don’t hate him, please. It wasn’t his fault,” she pleaded, hoping his jealousy wasn’t eating him alive as badly as hers was right then, for she knew of her experiences under Ron, and could only imagine Draco doing the same with some other witch…one of her friends, even. “No one can predict when Transition will hit. It just does.”

Silently, on cat-like feet, Draco approached her from behind. She jumped a bit at his hands landed gently on her shoulders.

“I know, Granger. It isn’t an easy thing. I…know.”

She shut her eyes, hating the imaginary visions of him thrusting away inside some other woman’s body, of him releasing inside that girl with a hoarse shout…

“I’ll try not to hate him. For you,” he promised her.

Nodding, she understood that they would both have to get past this unexpected change in their lives—not only the part where that they were no longer virgins, having given their innocence up to others, but that they wanted something more from _each other_ …something beyond a few kisses and exploratory touches in a coat closet.

This thing between them, which had started for her sometime in their first year, with their introduction and enmity, and which had changed over the years so that by their sixth year they were kissing, had become serious, deep…and she hoped, abiding.

“I’ll try to do the same,” she vowed as well.

He wrapped himself around her then, pulling her back into his solid chest, sliding his huge arms around her middle.

“I wanted it to be me,” he admitted in a soft whisper.

“It still can be,” she told him, referring to her own Transition, which had yet to manifest, despite the fact she was almost a year older than he. “If you want.”

He took a deep breath and then let it out slowly, and his spine straightened as if he’d resolved himself to something important and irrevocable. “Slytherin knows, I’ve waited this long for you, Granger,” he confessed. He kissed her temple, and then leaned his head against hers. “A few more months won’t matter.”


	7. The Struggle

**_Autumn, 2000_ **

 

Draco leaned over the map Moody’s people had brought him, and ran a tired hand through his limp, dirty hair. All he could see was blurred shapes and red lines. None of it made sense to his exhausted mind at the moment.

A shower, a shave, a good meal, and a soft bed—in that order, that’s what he needed. That, and sex. It had been too long since he’d had any of those things, always hopping from one skirmish or Order meeting to the next, with hardly any time to himself. It had been days since he’d enjoyed hot water and soap, weeks since he’d eaten anything that wasn’t badly reheated, and months since he’d last had a warm, willing woman under him and a feathered pillow under his head. He was beginning to get tetchy from the lack of basic comforts.

This war was dragging on longer than anyone had anticipated. The horcrux hunt was at a stand-still, as the last one had yet to be found. They’d destroyed the others using a Basilisk fang retrieved from the Chamber of Secrets—Weasley’s idea, surprisingly—and when Longbottom had captured Nagini and brought her to them, they’d finished her off the same way. The final piece on the board, however, remained elusive.

There were days when he looked at Potter and Draco swore the other man knew more than he was letting on in that respect. However, with the birth of his son to the She-Weasel a few months ago, the Boy Wonder seemed somehow reluctant to reveal that final bit of knowledge.

Draco sighed and ran a hand through his fringe again, raking the hair until it stood on end.

Thank the stars the kid hadn’t looked like him. He was sure that when Little Ginger had announced she was expecting eight months ago, that he was fucked. She’d gone through her Transition the same night he had—just two weeks before Granger and company had come trooping home from their little ‘into the woods’ escapade—and when it had become apparent to both of them what was happening, he and Ginny Weasley had found each other and worked out a deal to see each other through. He’d been sure he’d been the one to get her up the duff when she’d come out and stated she was preggers.

But Potter had gone through his Transition the week he’d come home—which had been part of the guy’s push for doing so in the first place, as he’d felt it creeping up on him. It turned out he’d been the one to impregnate his girlfriend the night of his change.

Not that the knowledge of who had actually sired the child would make a lick of difference to Granger now. The damage was already done, and it seemed they weren’t getting back together.

The morning the She-Weasel had made her pregnancy announcement Granger had taken one look at him and finally known who his Transition partner had been. Until then, he’d refused to divulge the name or even hint about it, wanting it to stay in the past and not infect their new relationship. That morning, however, the truth had crashed down around his ears, and Granger had been so stricken that he’d fucked her best girlfriend into the mattress, and may have even been the one to breed her, too, that she’d fled for the Tonks residence, taking up a room with his aunt and refusing to see him.

That had been the end of their brief, but all-consuming romance.

The weeks after she’d left him, Lupin, Moody, and Shacklebolt worked him hard in the field, keeping him too busy to fall into the funk of depression that pulled at him whenever he stopped moving and started thinking. They’d shouldered a list of heavy responsibilities upon him, forcing him to spare no time for self-pity. Before he knew it, seven months had passed in a blur of strategy meetings, infiltration raids, and guerrilla-type incursions. Within that time, he’d become a valuable and key member of the Order, running missions and earning a reputation for being the guy who could get shit done.

When Lupin sent him to the Burrow to deliver a message in person to Bill Weasley, who was staying there with his pregnant wife as Shell Cottage had been taken over for the Order’s Headquarters early in the war, Draco had anticipated just another routine mission. He definitely hadn’t expected to see Hermione there, least of all in the arms of another man.

She’d been in the Weasley’s kitchen, letting Viktor Krum instruct her on how to properly wash a cup in the sink, his massive arms around her, guiding the soapy sponge in her hand. His mouth was at her ear, whispering something that made her smile and blush, and from the angle he was looking, it was clear Krum had an impressive erection pressed up against the sway of Granger's little pre-Trans spine. And yet, she wasn’t scolding the big Bulgarian as she’d always done to Draco whenever he’d gotten a little too frisky with her in a similar fashion. In fact, she looked as if she’d enjoyed Krum practically humping her from behind.

For a minute there, Draco believed he’d been shot straight through his chest with one of those Muggle gun contraptions, because seeing Granger and Krum together like that sure as shit hurt that much.

He must have made some sort of sound, because both of them had looked up at him at once, shocked to find him there. Clearly, they hadn’t heard him crossing the wards around the place, or come in through the back door.

The moment his ex-girlfriend had spied him, she’d gone wide-eyed in surprise and red-faced with guilt.

When Draco had recovered enough sense to do something, _anything_ , he’d decided that leaving the letter on the counter and then turning around and leaving was infinitely preferable to whipping his wand out like some jealous fool and cursing the shit out the Bulgarian boy-toy. He’d gone back to Grimmauld instead, got roaring drunk, and fucked both Patil sisters that night.

Of course, rumour of that liaison had made the rounds, and soon after, Granger had begun openly dating Krum. They’d been together since.

The word going around currently was that she planned to ask her new boyfriend to help her through her Transition when it was time—which was something Draco couldn’t allow, for a number of reasons, the most pressing of which was that he was bound by his father’s _rhythe_ , the equivalent of a Wizard’s Oath, to help Granger when her time came. The consequences for failing to do that would be…well, _severe_  was an understatement. He was looking down the wand at permanent Squibdom should he not fulfill that particularly pesky promise.

Avoiding her was no longer an option, which meant he’d have to explain things to Moody so the man would understand that Draco couldn’t afford not to be there for Granger when her Transition hit. Alastor would keep the other Order leaders off his back without revealing the reason; the man was good at misdirection and hoarding secrets.

Unable to concentrate on his newest plan, Draco broke off from studying the map, thinking now might be as good a time as any to find Moody and explain things. The man had gone down to the shoreline with Minerva to see the old witch off. She’d Apparated in earlier that morning to discuss the situation at Hogwarts, as Yaxley had replaced her as Head of the school this year at Voldemort’s behest, and now that plans had been made for her next steps, she was headed back to Scotland to reprise her role as Transfiguration teacher, and to keep her eyes and ears open for the Order.

“Hold up, Mister Malfoy,” Kingsley called out to him from the living room couch, spying Draco’s imminent departure from the safe house. “I’ll accompany you. I could use some fresh air.”

Draco waited at the door for his mentor to catch up, and then they stepped through it one after the other. The familiar tingle of the wards around Shell Cottage broke over his flesh as he moved through them onto the beach.

Kingsley Shacklebolt was a big man, taller even than Draco’s six-three, and outweighing him by at least two stone of pure muscle. His appearance was deceptive, however, as the man moved quietly and with the smooth gait of a long-time Auror, even over sand. He also matched Draco’s no-nonsense stride easily without being winded, despite the fact Draco was at least twenty years his junior.

They spoke only when Draco stopped at the edge of the shore, awaiting Moody, who was down the beach about a hundred feet away, saying his final goodbyes to McGonagall.

“You are a man on the edge,” Kingsley noted, cutting to the chase. “I know the look well. I’ll talk to Alastor about rotating you out for a bit. A rest at Hagrid’s old home in Cinderford, perhaps.”

Draco opened his mouth to argue, but Kingsley had only to glance at him from his peripheral vision, and he knew this was an order from his superior, not a suggestion.

Sullenly, Draco bent and picked up a small rock off the beach and winged it into the water. There was no skip, as the ocean’s surface was never still, and instead it was swallowed up by an incoming wave. 

He knew that feeling well.

Shacklebolt put his hand on Draco’s shoulder in a fatherly manner. “It’ll give you an opportunity to rest, relax…reconnect with others.” He patted Draco’s shoulder with a hearty, firm hand, and Draco could feel the hidden strength in those battle-scarred fingers. “It’ll be good for you to get away, son.”

Merlin’s balls, Kingsley had the right idea. Sinking into a warm, willing female tonight might be just the thing he needed to unwind and, for a little while, forget about his ex. It wasn’t as if Granger had exhibited any of the signs of going into Transition anytime soon, so he was safe to be away from her for the next month, at least.

...And for fuck’s sake, why was he so obsessed with her, anyway? She’d made it clear she didn’t want him anymore. She’d moved on. Yeah, he had to help her through her Transition, but that didn’t mean he had to bond to the witch. He would only be doing what she’d done for Weasley: providing some magical aid to align her aura and a little sex.

Okay, a lot of sex.

Still, it didn’t have to be some grand romance between them just because they’d make the beasts with two backs. How and why he’d become confused on that matter seemed fuzzy to him now, but the one thing he was clear about was that the vow he’d taken as a child hadn’t been a promise of chastity or one requiring him to fall in love with Granger. It had simply been a promise to come to her aid the one time, and in return, he fulfilled his father’s _rhythe_  and avoided a rather unpleasant consequence. Other than that, they didn’t have to have any interaction at all. She could go her way, and he his. He could move on, too.

He took a deep breath, and made his choice.

“When do I leave?”

 


	8. The Feud

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bête Noire = French for “Black Beast”. It represents someone who is the bane of your existence, a person you don’t particularly like, a pest, a pain in the neck, etc.

**_Autumn, 2001_ **

 

Molly had been right: chopping vegetables for stew was cathartic. Every chunk Hermione carved off a carrot, every celery stick she hacked up, and every potato she diced into cubes was re-imagined as a piece of Malfoy she was mutilating.

And she could blame her tears on the onions, if anyone asked.

With a trembling hand, she wiped at her eyes, and tried to choke back her sobs. Stupid, she was being stupid. Why should the sounds echoing through the house from the upstairs bedroom upset her like this? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t heard people going at it before in a safe house, as shagging was a common occurrence nowadays, since everyone else had already gone through their Transitions by now, even if she still hadn’t. So what if it was Malfoy this time engaging in a little rough play? He wasn’t her boyfriend anymore—and she’d hardly call what they’d had some whirlwind romance anyway. They’d kissed and petted under clothing a handful of times years before, big deal!

…Okay, yes, during their brief time together back at Grimmauld three years ago, they’d also made it a habit to cuddle up on the sofa under a lap blanket to watch the rain pelting the windows outside.

…And yes, there had been the one time they’d sat across from each other on the floor before the fire, their knees touching and fingers entwined as they’d shared intimate secrets about their childhood. 

….Then there had been all those nights they’d slept next to each other and she’d awoken in his arms with his hand cupping her small breast in his sleep as they spooned, feeling warm and wanted and a peculiar sense that she belonged there always.

 _“Enough,”_  she growled at her tormenting conscience.

What she’d had with Draco was long over. She had to let it go.

The vigorous squeaking of an old bed frame somewhere above began again, as did a woman’s breathy moans. Hermione shut her eyes and tried not to listen, but it was just so loud in the otherwise quiet house. Frustrated, she set down her knife, wiped her hand on the apron she wore, and turned to rummage around in the cupboards until she’d found what she was searching for: the radio Tonks listened to anytime she needed to make supper. Hermione turned it on. 

Yes, some big band swing would certainly help drown out the squeaking and pleasure-filled groaning coming from above, surely!

She returned to her work with a relieved sigh.

Something ‘thumped’ hard against a wall upstairs. Then again. And again. A headboard, she thought, recognising the sound from having shared safe houses with many of her sexually-active friends before. She grit her teeth. Clearly, Malfoy had moved on, and he was back to doing what he was best at, it seemed: being crude and thoughtless. Bastard.

... _thump_ ... _thump_ ...

Oh, why was she so obsessed with Draco Malfoy anyway? She was with Viktor, after all! They’d been dating for several months now, and she was…

Not in love with him. Not even close.

In truth, she was ready to give Viktor the old ‘heave-ho’, as yet another rumour had recently been circulating about him and newly Transitioned Gabrielle Delacour, this time in the safe house in Mould-on-the-Wold. She’d intended to break things off with the man tonight, in fact, but when she’d arrived forty-minutes ago to the lovely, two-story thatched cottage in Ilkley Moor—formerly Remus’ one-story, semi-derelict cottage, fixed up—with an armload of groceries to restock the place, she’d been stopped cold by the sounds of two people shagging like animals upstairs. On the kitchen table, Viktor had left her a note explaining that he and Pansy Parkinson had swapped places for the night, so he wouldn’t be there to meet her as planned, and oh, by the way, Draco Malfoy had been forced to this safe house after the one he’d been in had been discovered by the Death Eater, Rosier.

That’s when it had hit her that: a.) she was not going to be breaking up with crummy Krum tonight, and b.) the mystery couple upstairs currently knocking the plaster off the wall and ruining the bed springs were none other than her ex- _whatever_  (because she and Draco had never actually made love, so she couldn’t call him a lover, could she?) and the witch who had tormented her worse than even Malfoy had during their school years.

Poetic.

So here she stood now, chopping vegetables for stew because it had been her turn to make a meal at a safe house, and she wanted nothing more than to march upstairs and tell the two ‘love birds’ to shut the feck up. She was irritated that her plans regarding Viktor had been mucked up, but worse, she was also writhing in jealousy at the fact that the mucker-uppers of her plans were currently enjoying themselves to the tune of several rounds of what sounded to be extremely good sex.

She set her knife down, and covered her eyes with her hands as she cried.

Tosser. Why did he always hurt her like this?

Well, the answer to that was obvious, wasn’t it? Malfoy had always been her _bête noire_ , the yin to her yang, the black to her white. He poked, she prodded. He elbowed, she kicked. He hissed, she growled right back. They were destined to be at each other’s throats, always at odds, always drawn to each other because of the fight. Their years in school proved it.

… _thump_ ... _thump_ ...

To hell with it! If they were doomed to be adversaries, she didn't need to make him dinner!

Dropping her hands, she tore off the apron and tossed it down on the table. Let ferret-face fend for himself! She owed him _nothing_. Quite the opposite in fact, since she’d been the one to save his stupid, worthless hide when he’d been on death’s door at Grimmauld years ago. If anything, he owed her a _rhythe_ , technically. Not that she would be petty and demand something of him for that favour so long ago, especially as doing so carried an Azkaban sentence if found out. 

Instead, she’d simply take not having to fix him dinner tonight as her due and call it even.

An hour later, when Malfoy finally emerged from his temporary bedroom upstairs, hungry and seeking food, he found the wireless on in the kitchen, a pantry completely empty of all food, and a letter from Hermione on the table wishing him luck in foraging for something to eat outside in the woods. She’d taken herself and all her culinary delights to Shell Cottage, where she knew they would be respected by the other members of the Order.

It turned out that dumping her disrespectful house partners that night did much to alleviate her disappointment that she hadn’t been able to do the same with her boorish boyfriend. Balance maintained.

And the stew was a big hit.


	9. The Fray

**_Autumn, 2002_ **

 

“What the _fuck_  did you think you were doing?”

Granger didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. Her expression of disappointment and disapproval, her use of a profanity, and her clear ire were enough to cow Potter, and just about every other male in the vicinity. For someone so small, someone who still hadn’t gone through her Transition yet, the witch definitely had a BIG way about her.

The cheers and excitement of knowing Voldemort had been defeated at long last was suddenly subdued in the face of her ire.

“I thought it would be better than involving anyone else,” Scarhead replied, defending his insane idea of sneaking out to face off against Voldemort alone in a one-on-one duel that had ended in the Dark Lord’s demise at Draco’s family’s home the night before. “No casualties that way.”

The glass behind Granger exploded in a spectacular display of accidental magic.

Everyone stared at her in disbelief. She didn’t seem to notice or care about their scrutiny, her focus solely on her friend. “No casualties, except yourself,” she icily pointed out. “And if you dare say it would have been an acceptable loss, I will lose my shit, Harry James Potter. I really will!”

Fuuuuuuuuuuck. She was serious. Draco had never heard her swear twice in a row or seen her so livid in his life, and he’d been on the receiving end of her displeasure for the last dozen or so years.

Potter was smart enough to know when he was beat. He dropped his eyes to the floor and apologised to everyone for not telling them the truth about the identity of the last horcrux— _him_ —which he’d claimed to know for over the last year. He wiped a hand across his eyes to clear the tears filling them. “I’m sorry. I was just… He killed so many people. Justin, Alicia, Ms. Figg, Percy, Dirk, Ted, Professor Burbage, Amelia Bones, and…Remus.”

The last was said in such a small, child-like voice, and conveyed the true depth of Potter’s sorrow at the man’s loss. He’d lost a friend, a teacher, a mentor, but more importantly, the last of the Marauders was gone, and Draco understood that with that loss passed all chance of Scarhead ever recapturing any intimate details about his parents.

“I just wanted it to end before Jamie was old enough to remember me, just in case,” he said. “It…hurts more, if you remember the dead.”

It was Weasley who broke ranks and went to his friend first. They hugged, and Draco was acutely uncomfortable with the display of emotion. Granger reluctantly let her anger cool and joined them in a three-way hug. Soon, others went in to share in the emotional reunion and celebration as well, and then everyone was hugging in relief that the fighting was done and they’d made it to the end. Gradually, the cheering began again once more, growing in strength until Order voices raised the roof with their unified cry:

The war was finally over! They’d won!

Draco stepped back from the cluster of happy, tear-streaked faces and cheers, turned, and headed for the door. Outside on the beach, he inhaled the salty sea air and let his anxiety pass over him.

Granger had been right. Potter had almost cost them everything. Fortunately, that desperate gamble had paid off, and the Dark Lord was now rotting in the grave. Cutting off the head of the snake wasn’t the end, though. He didn’t want to upset the party, but there was still work to do. The Death Eaters and their Snatcher army were still very much out there, and they might reunite under a new leader or scatter to the four winds to hide. Either way, they needed to be ended as well.

Heading down the beach, he prepared to Disapparate away to his family’s old home, to assess the damage, or to flush out any evil in hiding within its four walls. A voice behind him stopped him in his tracks, however.

“Don’t tell me you plan on doing something noble and stupid, too.”

He internally sighed, but didn’t turn around. His relationship with Granger had improved since she’d finally dumped Krum last year, but it was far from what it had been before the She-Weasel’s pregnancy announcement years ago. He wasn’t sure it could ever go back to that, honestly. Granger’s walls were too steep to surmount some days. ‘Acquaintances’ was the best he could hope to achieve, no matter how much he wanted more with her.

“Sorry, love, but serpents and lions are two different animals,” he said “Think you’ve got me confused with Weasley.”

Her sigh was deep and filled with irritation at him. “You’re going home to Malfoy Manor, aren’t you? You’re going to go looking for Bellatrix Lestrange.”

Shit, how did she do that? It was like she plucked the thoughts right from his head!

“Why’d you follow me?” he demanded, turning the tables, a’la Slytherin style.

She came around him to face him, since he wouldn’t look at her. Standing in front of him, arms crossed and jaw set at a stubborn and defiant angle, she was the picture of righteousness. “Whatever you’ve planned, you’re not going without me,” she stated very assuredly, challenging him to resist her.

He felt his erection throb to life again.

Shit, he’d been half hard for her all week. Every time she so much as glanced in his direction, his prick begged to come out and play, seeming to have a life of its own. It was a hell of a thing.

“You plan to clear this with the others?” he asked, jerking his head back towards the house.

“Obviously.”

He stepped around her and kept walking so he would be far enough from the wards to Disapparate without causing a ripple effect against them. “Sorry, but I don’t have time to discuss this with a committee.”

Her “oooh” of anger made him grin. She really was an adorable thing when riled up.

“You are the most pig-headed man I’ve ever met,” she growled, chasing after him. “Fine! I’ll send a Patronus when we get to your home, but you can’t go alone. You have to have a partner. At least follow that one rule, since you’re hell-bent on breaking all the others.”

Stopping suddenly was intentional, as he wanted her to crash into him. Predictably, she did so. He spun in that moment and caught her up in his arms. “Assuming no one’s skulking about my property, we’ll be alone, you realise.” It seemed only fair to warn her.

Her cheeks turned apple-red, and suddenly she found something at his collar that was interesting to look at instead of his face.

“It’s big enough for the both of us, I’m sure.”

He shrugged, but didn’t release her, enjoying the way she made little, half-hearted attempts to break his hold. “Until I assess the entire house, we’ll stay in the same room, for safety’s sake.” From this distance, he could smell her perfume, with its tempting hints of sweet peaches and warm spices beckoning him closer… “And anyway,” he murmured as he brought his nose to her ear, sniffing the lingering fragrance against her skin and in her hair— _god, she smelled so good_ , “are you sure you trust me to behave? You’ve avoided being alone with me for years, I’ve noticed.”

Her shaky breath blasted across his throat as she struggled to keep her composure. Clearly, he was beginning to affect her, too. “You’ve never been lonely for company, _I’ve_  noticed.”

“Jealous?”

She sniffed in dismissal, but he noticed she didn’t actually deny it.

The feel of her in his arms again was stirring up memories he’d spent years tamping down. He recalled the silk of her skin against his, the taste of her mouth, how warm she was curled up in his arms.

_Bet she’s soft all over, especially between her legs…_

Bloody hell, what was he doing? The landing from the first time he’d fallen for Hermione Granger had been hard enough, and now that it was close to end-game and he could finally get his revenge on his aunt, he really couldn’t afford the distraction that this witch presented.

Besides, just because she wasn’t dating Krum any longer, and she’d begun to forgive him for his past mistakes, that didn’t mean they could dance this tune a second time.

…Fuck it, he was going to try, wasn’t he? Pansy would say he was being led about by his cock _again_ , but he suspected that with Granger, it was a different organ altogether, one higher up the body, around chest-level.

Wrapping his arms around her, drawing her into him, he lifted her and began to turn. “Hold on, love.”

They Disapparated away to Malfoy Manor.


	10. The Squabble

After checking the entire house, top to bottom, Draco left Hermione in the library, with its rather impressive stack of books that her fingers itched to catalogue, while he went to check the kitchen below for food.

It was an obvious ruse dumping her in here, of all places, as she knew he was using her distraction to most likely go upstairs to the bedrooms to determine if private items left behind so long ago were still in their places, and to inventory what was missing from his mother’s jewels. Still, she didn’t begrudge him his Slytherin tendencies in this case. She’d be concerned of theft, too, if their roles were reversed.

Hermione had managed to get her Patronus off to Shell Cottage when they’d first arrived to explain to the others in the Order about her and Draco’s absence. Harry’s Patronus arrived a bit after that to archly remind her to be careful going off alone, in a parody of their earlier fight. He’d then wished her luck, and she knew what he was implying in those words: _give Malfoy a second chance_.

A second chance, indeed. More like a fortieth or fiftieth one. She’d lost count so long ago, it hardly mattered now.

Putting that issue aside for the moment, she glanced up at the stacks, looking for a title she hadn’t read before.

…And just like that, it suddenly seemed too much. Her brain was simply too tired to even consider reading.

Ginny had cautioned her yesterday that she’d looked a bit peaked and frazzled lately, like a candle burning out at both ends. Perhaps Gin was right. She’d been on the run for years. Maybe it was starting to wear her down and she should just…stop for a bit.

And, hey, they’d finally won the war, hadn’t they? Didn’t she deserve a little down-time now?

A plush chaise lounge nearby summoned her to lay her weary head down upon it, and to cuddle under the attractive tartan throw that was draped across its back, so she gave in and did just that. Removing her shoes, she spread out on the couch and dragged the lap quilt over her, enjoying the warm fire she’d set in the hearth earlier.

As she stared into the flames in the hearth nearby, she wondered what the hell she was doing. What had she been thinking running after Draco as she had? It had been foolish, a heart-on-her-sleeve moment. She hadn’t even thought to consider supplies, like food, for instance. All she’d done was grab her coat and check to make sure her wand was tucked safely in its belt holster on her hip on the way out the door to chase him down the beach. That wasn’t like her at all. Totally reckless.

...Okay, maybe it was a _little_  like her, but only under the most extreme situations that required a solution off-the-cuff. Generally speaking, she preferred to be prepared.

Closing her eyes, she tried to relax her muscles, to fight off the all-over body cramps that had been pecking away at her all week by regulating her breathing.

This was why she’d really been kicking herself in the bum for having acted so spontaneously earlier: because she’d forgotten her pain potion back at the cottage when she’d run out after Malfoy. She hadn’t been feeling well all week, aching from head to toe, and she’d been suffering a small headache that had grown progressively worse as the days passed. The pain, of course, affected her moods, making her snappish and easily riled. The anger she’d displayed earlier at Harry, including the use of accidental magic to explode a window behind her, had been the result.

All that negative energy had finally sapped her dry. Now all she wanted to do was sleep for a million years.

Her period must be on its way. She only felt this horrible around that time of the month.

Fantastic.

Bundled up before the fire as she was, Hermione felt toasty and somewhat melty. She succumbed to sleep, and woke up hours later to find Draco staring out the library’s window onto the back gardens, looking for any sign of trouble. On a tray on the coffee table before her was a pot of hot tea, a cup, a place setting, and a small bowl filled with piping hot vegetable soup.

Unconcerned with how she must look in that moment, she sat upright, keeping the quilt wrapped around her shoulders to ward off a violent case of the shivers. Ravenous, she dug in to the small, but satisfying meal, and downed the entire pot of tea by herself.

She was wiping her mouth with the napkin, covering up a small, satisfying burp, when she felt Draco's hand testing the temperature of her forehead.

“Granger, you don’t look well.”

She wanted to debate her companion, but at that moment, all she wanted to do was sleep some more, so she merely shrugged.

“You’re sweaty.”

With a sigh, she replied, “I’ve been wrapped up in front of the fire, Malfoy. Of course I’m going to be a little sweaty.”

He shook his head, bending to her level and looking into her face. He seemed concerned. “You’re ill. How long have you been this way?”

Looking up, she noted he was strangely blurry. “I’ve been…a little off for a week or so, but…”

Malfoy went stone-still.

“Define ‘a little off’ for me, Granger. What were your symptoms?”

She waved him off, attempting to get to her feet, but the room suddenly swayed and she toppled forward, right into his arms. “Oh, my. That’s…not right.”

Draco began swearing then, and before she could stop him, he helped her back down onto the sofa, taking her into his arms. “Have your bones been aching? Have you had a headache all week?”

“Yes. Why?”

His swearing intensified.

Feeling a little nauseated then too, Hermione put her head down on his shoulder and shut her eyes. “Malfoy, if you don’t stop profaning at me and just tell me what’s going on‒”

“You’re Transitioning.”

Her heart skipped a beat and she opened her eyes, attempting to focus on his face. “What? No. I can’t be.”

“Sorry, love, but you are. I recognise the signs. It’s happening for you,” he told her, holding her close to him. He sighed and slumped back into the cushions with her. “Finally.”

Panic pulled at her, making Hermione’s heart pound and her blood pressure skyrocket, scattering her exhaustion to the four winds. “No, don’t say that. It can’t, not now!” Her hands shook as badly as her voice at the thought that her Transition had come. She was the last of her friends to go through it, years later than the others for reasons unknown. If things went wrong tonight, she might end up a Squib…or worse, a corpse. “Oh, god, I’m not ready!”

Her ex glanced at her, his ice grey eyes steady and assured. “There’s no stopping the inevitable, Granger. You can’t control this.”

That was when Hermione started to hyperventilate.


	11. The Break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonding = In the B.D.B. universe, bonding happens when two soulmates meet. There is an instant connection between them upon their introduction, and an overwhelming and uncontrollable need felt thereafter by both to be near the other, to assure the other's safety, and to care for the other's physical and emotional needs. They become pretty obsessed with their soulmate until they physically mate (and even afterwards, that feeling remains, only strengthening with time). Bonding for males in the B.D.B. universe also brings with it extreme possessiveness of their mate (often revealing itself as jealousy). When mates bond, it is for life. I've capitalized upon that idea for this story's plot.

She was terrified, that much was obvious by the tight hold Hermione had on his forearm and the way her chest began pumping for oxygen like it was going out of style at any moment.

Transition. Shit.

Well, this definitely explained why he’d been so amped up around her all week. His cock had been giving him the clue. Little fucker had been sniffing the pheromones her body had been subtly putting out to ensnare a male to help her get through the event.

If he noticed, that meant the other Transitioned males at HQ must have noticed, too. That explained why they were all just standing around, watching her verbally castrate Potter. Like sharks to blood, they couldn’t help but be attracted to her, whether they’d wanted to be or not. It was instinct. Thank Merlin she’d chased after him down the beach, otherwise, he’d have left her behind and been totally fucked when she’d turned to someone else for help. The _rhythe_  wouldn’t have cared his reasons for skipping out on its requirement. It simply would have punished him.

That wasn’t the whole of it, though. The truth was the thought of some other man touching her again made Draco feel irrationally violent. He’d missed his chance to be her first lover, as that honour had gone to the Weasel-King. Then, he’d let her walk straight into Krum’s arms out of guilt for having believed he’d impregnated her best girlfriend. He wasn’t about to let another male have her, especially during Transition, when the possibility of partners bonding to each other was a strong one. Granger was  _his_. She had been the moment her father had come to him when he’d been a child and magically chained his life to hers. 

She was his _pyrocant_. He didn’t know now why he’d fought that truth for so long.

The only question remaining was whether she would refuse him or not. Would she ask him to take her back to Shell Cottage so she could find another wizard she preferred over him?

“Oh, my god, this is really happening, isn’t it? I can’t stop it or put it on pause, or direct where it should go and do,” she babbled, gasping for air. “Why didn’t I know? I’m supposed to be brilliant, Draco! I should have known what my symptoms meant!”

She was wide-eyed and teary, sweaty and trembling all over, and she looked torn between running for the door and clinging to him like he was her only anchor in a storm-tossed sea—which he was, technically, as he was the only other person around. Lucky for her, he also happened to be male, too. Transition partners had to be someone from the opposite sex. Seems they’d both struck gold this time.

“I could die today or become a Squib, couldn’t I?” she asked, clearly terrified by either possibility. She sucked in a sharp breath. “Godric, I’m not sure if I’m more scared of dying than I am of losing my magic!”

He opened his mouth to reassure her that he wouldn’t let either of those things happen, but she starting swearing up a storm again. “Look, Malfoy, if something goes sideways, I know you’ll go on and do something monumentally stupid without me here to watch over you. You can be reckless and stubborn at times, just like me,” she accused, pushing at his chest. “I know you want revenge against your aunt. I can see it in your face every time her name comes up in conversation at HQ. You want to kill her for murdering your parents and Snape, and I know I can’t stop you from that plan.” She grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “But you absolutely cannot go after her alone! You have to take me with you, you big, blond prat! I won’t let you face her by yourself!” She swallowed hard and started to cry. “So, I need you to save me, see? Because you're _mine_ , and I need to save you right back!”

Draco’s chest went tight at her confession, and a great weight that had held him down for so long seemed to simply fall away, leaving him assured and clear of purpose. He was going to do right by her, in any way she asked. He’d service her forever, if she wanted. Turning his head, he pressed gentle kisses all up and down her throat to soothe her. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I’ll see you through this.” He smoothed strands of her hair from her cheeks and looked her in the eye as he promised, “Trust me, Hermione.”

Her breathing hitched.

“I will.”

Her consent was the last confirmation he needed.

Carefully adjusting her into his arms, he laid her back onto the sofa, aware at all times of her arms twined around his neck and how calm and accepting she had suddenly become, too.

 

* * *

  

“What’s going to happen first?” she asked, a tiny bit of anxiety creeping back in between them as they lay facing each other.

His grey gaze was sedate as he stared back at her, his touch gentling as he moved some hair off her face. “Your body will change, and then when it’s done, I’ll help you realign your magical aura. After that…it’s your decision. I’m here for you.”

Sex. He was talking about them having sex.

In truth, the thought of doing that with him didn’t frighten her. She wasn’t some shy virgin; she’d had two lovers. Sure, neither of those experiences had been great for her, given her body’s limitations, but she wasn’t some ignorant child, either. She was a woman, and about to become a fully-mature one at that. She could be brave enough to admit that she’d wanted Draco in her bed for a long time.

It was what came after _that_  bit that she was asking about.

“You’re flushed,” he said, speaking very softly to her. “Are you thinking naughty things, Granger?”

She dropped her gaze and bit her bottom lip. “No.”

His thumb brushed her mouth. “You know, for a noble Gryffindor, you spend a lot of time lying like a Slytherin to me.” He chuckled. “I like that.”

“It’s hot in here,” she blurted. “That’s why I’ve got lobster-face.”

And that wasn’t an exaggeration. It was bloody hot, tropically so. She really wished she was wearing less clothing, and not just because she was eager for sex with Draco. Her body was so close to changing, and the anxiety was once more creeping back in and setting her blood pressure into the stratosphere. She felt out of control of the situation, and that scared her as nothing else did.

“Can’t you cast a Cooling charm on me, please?”

Her would-be lover shook his head. “Being warm relaxes your muscles and eases the cramps. You’ll want that when it starts. Sorry, love.”

Despite having researched the phenomena well, and having helped Ron through his Transition, there was still so much she didn’t know from _this_  side of it…like, how exactly it started and what that felt like when it did strike, or how she’d know when it ended.

She remembered the time in the tent years earlier, when Ron’s screams had shattered the quiet night and Harry had left them to their privacy, per her request. She recalled as her best friend’s body had shifted so violently, the bones and joints popping as muscle grew in and height was added. In some ways, the process had reminded her of how a werewolf changed, only without the lycanthropic infection getting in the way. She recalled how agonized Ron had seemed as his body twisted and morphed into its adult form, and how helpless she’d felt, unable to take the pain from him.

Ron had passed out from the pain half-way through, fortunately.

Ten or so minutes after the last tremor wracked his body, though, her best friend had woken up, terrified and gasping for breath—and that’s when she’d finally understood a partner’s role in Transition: the body’s abrupt physical changes during Transition offset one’s magical aura. In order to realign it properly, outside intervention was required.

The act of realigning Ron’s aura hadn’t been that difficult, really, as some buried instinct within her had suddenly lit up in that moment and taken over. She’d simply pushed against his sternum, the magic of the moment allowing her hand to phase through his flesh without causing harm, and she’d grabbed his meandering magical aura and dragged it back to his heart, where his soul resided. She’d aligned the two energies perfectly, and then let go, withdrawing. The magic had taken over from there, sewing up Ron’s magic and his life-force permanently.

Had she mucked that part up, she could have burned his magic out by accident, turning him into a Squib. Fortunately, she’d done it right, and the moment Ron’s magic and soul had merged into one whole unit again, his “new” body had come online, becoming fully, biologically functional…and frenzied to prove it.

And that’s how she’d lost her virginity.

Thank Merlin Ron hadn’t attempted to bond to her that night, nor Viktor later when they’d dated, for that matter. She wasn’t sure how or why it was wizards could share a piece of their magical soul with a witch, but she suspected it was like the aura alignment thing and simply instinct on their part. What she did know was that bonding was for life on the part of the male, and could happen at any time, but was frequently known to occur as a result of sexual relations. A wizard’s devotion to a witch would be absolute on his part once he committed to her in such a way, as bonding was sort of a magical Fidelity charm, in a sense. Although she loved Ron as a best friend and would die to protect him from harm, she would not have wanted him to be tied to her in that fashion. Being romantically bonded to him would have been a truly terrible idea.

Ditto for Viktor, minus the friendship and dying thing.

Would Draco bond to her tonight, though? Did she want him to? The tiny part of her that believed in fate thought that she and Malfoy had spent most of their lives since that first meeting on the Hogwarts Express dancing around each other for this exact moment. Didn’t that logically conclude some sort of soul-like connection already existed between them?

But she was taking the cart out before the horse, wasn’t she? First, she had to survive the physical changes. Transitioning witches and wizards were known to suffer heart attacks or have aneurysms and die as a result of the tremendous strain.

“If my heart stops, you have to promise to zap it until it starts beating again, okay?” she instructed her partner, her anxiety returning full force.

Reaching up, Draco cupped her cheek and forced her to meet his eyes. “I won’t let you die and I won’t let you burn out, either. Just focus on me and breathe, and you’ll get through it. Promise.”

“You sound like a birthing coach.”

He chuckled at that, but then got serious again. “How are you doing?”

She bit her bottom lip hard and forced a smile. “Peachy.”

“Fibber,” he said and rubbed his thumb over her bottom lip a second time, soothing it. “We’re going to have to find a better use for that mouth of yours.”

His touch felt so good. “Any ideas?” she asked, her gaze drifting to his lips, wondering if they still tasted as delicious as she remembered.

“Several.”

Draco kissed her then, and the world seemed to spin on its axis as she shut her eyes and opened for him. Every time it was like this, from the first kiss to this one. He’d always turned her upside-down and inside-out.

Her blood started pounding in response…and then, the pressure began to throb behind her eyelids. She broke off their kiss and pressed a hand to her brow, where the headache she’d been experiencing all week suddenly became something sharper and cruel.

“Ow, ow, ow!” she gasped. “It hurts!”

Draco moved away and gently rolled her onto her back. The ache in every one of her joints was acutely worse all of a sudden, and her guts began to writhe in her belly, making her nauseated. She wanted to curl into a foetal position, to lean her head over the edge of the longue and vomit until this hot, queasy burn rolling through her eased off. An electric spark began at the base of her skull then, and with agonizing slowness it travelled downwards, bowing her back. A thousand needles danced up and down her spine. It hurt worse than she’d imagined it would.

“Breathe, Granger. Just breathe and push past it!” Draco called out to her from beyond the pain, shoving his belt between her lips until she clamped down on it. “Don’t bite your tongue or break your teeth. Bite the leather.”

She couldn’t be sure how she responded to him exactly, only knew that it involved some sort of sobbing and screaming around the bit in her mouth, and reaching for him, begging without words for his help. It went on and on, forever…an eternity of _Crucios_  and Slicing Hexes. Hot pokers continually shoved themselves under her skin, while her body stretched, popping open at every joint, breaking and remaking itself. And then, it suddenly stopped, and she sobbed until her eyes bled…and Draco was there for her, a solid, strong presence taking her hand and guiding her out of the darkness and back into the light with demands for her not to let go. His cool, unwavering magical energies flowed through her, helping her aura and her soul to stop scraping against each other, instead forcing them to align just right and to melt into each other as nature had intended. They came together in an incandescent burst of light…

That’s when she blacked out.

She came to sometime later to the feel of a soft, damp washcloth slowly meandering its way down her body, cleansing the sweat from her clammy skin. The sensation of pleasure as the fabric accidentally brushed across a nipple was what brought her awake, as it was both a foreign sensation and a very enjoyable one at the same time.

“Keep moaning like that, Granger, and I’ll need a little private time.”

Her eyelids flickered open. Same ceiling as before, same soft cushion under her.

She shivered, realising she was naked. At her side, Draco’s face blurred into focus.

“Hey,” he softly greeted her. “Welcome to the other side.”

Hermione took a deep breath…and a ripple of pleasure ran through her from head to toe, tearing another moan from her mouth and making her acutely aware of a strange and wonderful throbbing sensation between her thighs. Moving without thought or care that she was being intently watched, she cupped her exposed sex, wanting to contain the delightful feeling, never wanting to let it go now that she’d finally found it.

“Go on. Touch yourself,” Draco whispered the encouragement.

She glanced up at him, confused, unsure, and more than a little embarrassed by her lack of control.

“I…”

She didn’t know what to do, or how to feel this strong of a need without losing herself to it. Draco did. His hand was warm as it joined hers between her legs, his fingers skilled as he showed her precisely what to touch and with the perfect pressure to bring her to her first orgasm with ease.

Slick with lust even after such a sweet climax, she tugged on his arm in a silent plea for him to come over and be inside her.

He hesitated. “You’re sure?”

She nodded. “Please,” she pleaded. “I’ve always wanted this with you.”

His chest pumped hard as he panted for breath, seeking control, and his fingers shook against her palm. “I’ll bond with you,” he warned her. “I won’t be able to stop myself, Granger. I know…” He shut his eyes as if in pain. “I’ll be yours forever, I just know.” He peeked through half-lidded eyes at her. “Do you want that?”

She paused to consider him for just a moment, and realised just then why he had always been the one to provoke her emotions and challenge her at every turn… “Draco, I think we bonded the moment we met on the train that first day.” Closing her eyes, she shuddered as another wave of heat rolled over her. “You took my hand, and I felt _this_. Very muted, but it was this same feeling. I felt desire for you, years before I should have. Didn’t you?”

Slowly, he nodded. “I fought it, all of it. God, I fought you so hard, Granger.”

“Ginny was right _,”_ she confirmed, smiling. “My _bête noire_  was my _pyrocant_ , too.” She twined her fingers with his on the bed beside her and knew that this was the moment she’d actually been waiting for her whole life. A tear of unexpected joy slipped down the side of her cheek as she stared into his lovely, tormented eyes. “I love you, Draco, and I’ve always needed you, for this…and for everything that comes after this.”

It didn’t take but a moment more for him to surrender to the truth, and then he was standing and removing his clothing, tossing it aside without care. She opened her arms to him as he came down over her and settled between her legs.

“I’ll make it good for you,” he promised.

Hermione nodded. "I trust you."


	12. The Tumble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leelan = In the B.D.B. universe, this is a term of endearment in the Vampire's old language, loosely translated as "dearest one" or "beloved". It is what Wrath calls Beth.

His mouth took hers and his tongue penetrated her deep at the same moment his fingers slid back inside her. Hermione opened for him easily, surrendering to the feelings of her newly awakened body, grinding her hard, little clit against his palm and begging for more.

Draco dipped his head, capturing a nipple, and suckled reverently upon it, even as he curled his fingers inside her and brought her to the edge. Her thighs shook as she came with a cry of his name.

She was so tight. Shit, he wasn’t going to last once he got inside her. Not long, anyway. He’d wanted this for too many years to cheat them both of a good first time. He had to take the edge off.

“Take me in your hand,” he coaxed her.

She did, wrapping her small fingers around him and giving him a light squeeze. He groaned at the pleasure that shot through him. Then, she began to stroke him, gathering his pre-come to slicken him from tip to base. He thrust into her palm and grunted as the pressure mounted.

“I want to come on you. Right here,” he said, sliding his fingers up and down between her wet slit. It was a nasty, possessive thought, but the idea of covering her pussy with his come, of marking her with his scent made him growl in anticipation.

“Yes,” she whimpered and glanced down between them.

Tilting her hips up and her hand down, she angled them both so when he released, he’d spill onto her exactly where they both wanted. He watched, enraptured by the view of them together, at long last. This was really happening, and _bloody hell,_ it was so good. Her taste was in his mouth, her arousal on his hand… He wanted to lick every inch of her, fuck her deep and hard, make her crave him as he craved her.

When she gave a little twist around the head of his cock, his body jerked in response and he felt the rush take him. He let out a heavy groan, and rocked his hips back and forth, covering her moist curls with his come.

Capturing her hand as the last drop was wrung from him he loosened her hold on him and entwined their fingers instead. Lowering his hips, he brought their bodies together, slicking his shaft with the combination of her need and what he’d left on her.

Feeling more in control, he relaxed and settled in against her sex. “I can’t wait anymore,” he said, eager for that connection that he’d desperately wanted with her for years.

“Me, either,” she admitted, lifting her knees and offering herself to him. “I’m more than ready for you.”

He kissed her, gripping her hand tighter, and slid home with a sigh of _“yes”_. Hermione gasped as he parted her silken flesh.

God, _fuck_ , she was so sweet and tight around him, her body a perfect fit…

When he was seated to the hilt, he paused to give them both a minute to find control. They were equally trembling, breathing hard, holding onto each other against the rush of their individual feelings.

In truth, Draco’s first time was an abstract memory, and every witch in his bed since had been a means to an end, but this moment right here and now would be etched inside his brain and heart for always. This wasn’t just about body parts connecting, or about a combative history finally reaching detente, or even about an obligatory vow made to Granger’s father. This was about soul mates coming together.

As he lay over her, looking down into her fully matured face, at its heart-like shape and the little bow at the top of her lip and how her eyes now sparkled with gold specks hovering within the rich, brown depths, he was suddenly and irreversibly awakened to her perfection, and how goddamned lucky he was to be allowed to touch it. “Hermione”, he sighed as he slid out of the perfect clasp of her sex, and then slid back in a moment later, going even deeper. He pressed his forehead to hers and stared into her warm eyes. “You’re still so beautiful. Nothing’s changed.”

Tightening her legs around him, she pulled him even closer to her. There was a sense of urgency to her movements and in her expression now. “Draco, I need you,” she pleaded, her thigh muscles trembling against his hips. “Please!”

Her words made his chest go tight, even as he continued the smooth glide of their bodies retreating and coming back together again. “Easy. Let me go slow, _leelan_ ,” he murmured between kisses, using the ancient wizarding word for ‘beloved’ to refer to her. “I want to do this right our first time.”

God, barely in her and he was already bonding to her, as he’d known would happen. He was becoming hers, just as assuredly as she’d always been his. All that remained was giving her a piece of his soul-linked magical aura…

 

* * *

  

Arching her back, Hermione clamped down on Draco’s sex as he slowly, gently slid back into her once more.

“I don’t want easy,” she panted, feeling a burning hunger for him that demanded immediate satisfaction. She forced him to let go of her hand, and then reached up to plunge her fingers into the long drape of his hair, which he’d grown out over the years. “I need more,” she stated, taking possession of him now. “I need all of you. Don’t hold back.”

As if her words presented the ultimate temptation to all of his darkest, male desires, he flushed all over with lusty heat. Pressing up on the palms of his hands, he loomed over her, forcing her to let go of the hold she had on the curtain of his hair.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

Fervently shaking her head, she began wiggling her hips. “You won’t be. God, please, just…move!” She dug her nails into his upper arms. “You can give me gentle later. _Much_  later.”

Still, he hesitated.

So, she said the one thing she knew would push him over the edge.

“Fuck me, Malfoy. Make me yours.”

 

* * *

  

Leaning forward, Draco pressed his mouth to hers, tasting her whimpers, her frustration, her need. That was what ultimately decided it for him, not her plea.

Although, that had been really hot, too.

Dropping his face into the cradle of her throat, he lowered his hips and cut loose, giving Granger everything she asked from him. Her body tensed all around him, creating the perfect pressure as he powered into her hard and deep, rocking the frame of the chaise lounge with each thrust. Her encouraging cries of,  _“yes, yes, more, harder,”_  drove him mad. He fucked her until the sweat poured off his chin and down his back, until her nails bit so deeply into him he knew he’d permanently scar. She came for him over and over, screaming in ecstasy as her long-delayed body made up for lost time with climax after climax. He released inside her equally as much, so much that their combined sexual essence drenched where they were connected, slicked their thighs, and soaked the sofa's cushion beneath them. 

Hours later, as her limbs finally went limp from exhaustion, Draco's body let go one last time. Even as that orgasm took him in its teeth and shook him from head to toe, he realised that for the first time in his life, he felt totally and completely satisfied. He felt as if he'd found his way home.

“I love you, too, Granger,” he growled as he rolled over and, keeping their bodies connected, turned them so she could fall asleep in his arms. "I always have. Always will. Always."

And that was when they fully bonded, and he became all hers.


	13. The Rally

Later, Hermione would wonder if she’d imagined it, that feathery white light surrounding both her and Draco that had felt so comforting, like a sun-warmed blanket on a rainy, grey day. It had surrounded her and penetrated her, and she’d fallen asleep content within its embrace.

The sounds of bird song woke her sometime later.

The bedroom window was open a crack to let in a gentle autumn breeze, and the loveliest trilling greeted her when she cracked open her eyes. Her head felt like sand; she’d overslept, it seemed.

What time was it?

Every muscle in her body strongly protested when she attempted to get up out of bed. It took several minutes, some hissed complaints, and a whole lot of effort to move, as she was sore in places she’d never been before…and in other places she didn’t know it was possible to feel such a thing.

God, Draco had nearly shagged her into traction!

As she bent with some difficulty at the waist to pull the sofa's tartan throw up and over her naked form, she became aware of raised voices somewhere within in the house. Zeroing in on a nearby wall vent, and straining her hearing, she was able to pick up on what was being said in one of the other rooms.

“…brought that filth here? To your father’s noble ancestral home?”

There was the sound of flesh smacking flesh rather hard, a slap that had been louder than even the one she’d given to Malfoy in their third year.

“How dare you, nephew! How dare you…mate…that filthy Mudblood!”

“I told you, she’s half-blood, you raving bitch,” Draco snarled back.

Hermione reeled back. Half-blood? That was a stretch for even for his ability to lie so well, she thought. There was no way Bellatrix Lestrange would believe such a thing, when everyone knew perfectly well Hermione’s magical affiliations. She’d made it no secret over the years that she was proud of her Muggle parents.

The clinking of chains and the sounds of a scuffle indicated Draco was being held captive by an Incarceration spell—which meant he’d been captured by his mad Aunt. How the witch got through the Manor wards was a mystery… Unless she’d never left in the first place. They hadn’t checked the greenhouse out back, where Draco’s mother had grown her prized roses.

Regardless, what was she going to do?

First things first, she found her wand in the folded pile of her clothing (Draco’s doing, no doubt), and cast a Healing charm on herself. It would help to dull the pain in her muscles, but the after affects would be hell. She’d deal.

Next, she dressed, as quickly and quietly as possible.

Then, Muffling her feet and the door hinges, she left the library and followed the voices to the Drawing Room.

“Hold him down, Fenrir. We wouldn’t want the knife to slip and cut him anywhere…vital,” Bellatrix purred, sounding positively triumphant.

More scuffling, and then a body slammed to the floor and Draco grunted from the impact.

“What are you doing, you mangy mutt?” Bellatrix chided, sounding put-out by her lackey. “Just sit on him, for Salazar’s sake! You outweigh the boy by two stone, easily!” More brawling followed. Someone threw a punch that connected. “Oh, must I do everything myself?”

Laughter followed from several mouths.

Hermione froze in the act of turning the doorknob, intending to surprise Bellatrix and Fenrir with a dual casting of a Petrification spell. The fact that she now knew there were more than just the two of them in the next room changed everything. She’d have to go with a Concussive spell to get them all at once, it seemed. Hopefully, Draco would already be on the ground, so he wouldn’t fall and hit his head.

Just as she prepared the spell, a familiar hand reached out and covered hers, stopping her from turning the doorknob. She looked up and over her shoulder in shock to find her father standing behind her, a finger over his lips to indicate she should be silent. Behind him stood Lucius Malfoy, Narcissa Malfoy, and Severus Snape.

Everyone had a wand out… _including her father._

Her father indicated she should step back and allow him to take the lead. Adamantly, she shook her head, thinking this some sort of sick joke. From the back of the group, Snape made an exasperated face, stepped forward and grabbed her arm, yanking her back. Hermione struggled against her former Professor’s grip, but he simply pointed his wand at her nose and she went still.

“Stay,” he whispered, so softly that she barely heard him.

Before she could counter his word or his wand, her father opened the door into the Drawing Room and cast a Concussive blasting spell of his own.

_Her father cast a spell._

“Well, that was refreshing,” he said, flashing them a pleased smile. “Still got it in me, it seems.”

Lucius Malfoy _tsked_  and rolled his eyes, but Narcissa ran past them all, calling for Draco. As she entered the room, she cast a series of Petrification spells on every Snatcher, Fenrir Greyback, and her own sister. Then, she knelt at Draco’s side.

“Oh, my son! Lucius, I need you!”

Hermione jerked her arm out of Severus Snape’s hold and ran past her father— _was that really him? It couldn’t be! It had to be Polyjuice potion or some new Weasley invention—_ and into the room, to kneel at Draco’s other side.

“A Healing charm won’t work,” she explained to ease Narcissa’s fretting. Putting pressure under one of his arms, Hermione attempted to force Draco into a seated position. “Concussive spells have the potency of three Stunning spells going off at once in a concentrated area, with the added effect of a one-hundred and seventy decibel bang. It doesn’t cause permanent damage, just temporary disorientation, deafness, and dizziness caused by the fluid in the ear being disturbed. He needs to get up on his feet and walk it off. It’ll help.”

“That’s my girl,” her father stated, proudly. “Always with an answer.”

As she put all her weight on one leg and shifted her body to support Draco under one arm, she pushed, lifting her muddled lover up off the floor…and causing every muscle in her body to scream in pain, nearly causing her to stumble sideways. It seemed the Healing charm she’d earlier cast had limits after all.

“Instead of gawping at my brilliance, how about a little help?” she asked the others.

Immediately, four wands were made available to help Draco’s recovery, and to secure the prisoners into the Malfoy dungeons below.

Once everyone was settled, and she’d gotten Draco back to the library to lie back on the chaise sofa, she turned to the man who looked and talked like her father, but absolutely could not be him, because…because that would be preposterous! “All right, who are you and what did you do with my father?” she asked him, pointing her wand in the imposter’s face. Then, she waved it back and forth between the others in the room. “And for that matter, aren’t the rest of you supposed to be dead?”

Across the room, Snape snorted, pouring himself a drink from the liquor caddy. “Clever though you believe yourself to be, Miss Granger, wisdom still escapes you, it seems.”

She glanced between the Malfoys, her former professor, and her ‘father’, then she took a seat next to Draco, her wand still at the ready, just in case.

“By all means, please do enlighten me.”


	14. ...And so it ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Dark Lover" is the title of the book featuring Wrath & Beth's story in the B.D.B. universe, "The King" is their second story, and "Lover At Last" was one of the titles of the books in the B.D.B. series with such a catchy title, I just had to use it here.

Her icy fury was the first thing Draco heard when his hearing returned.

"You're a  _WHAT?_ " Hermione seethed, staring down her father with that same death-glare she'd given Potter just the other day. "Do you mean to tell me that all this time, you've been lying to me about who and what you really are?"

Hermione's father held up his hands in surrender. "Now, now, petal…let me explain."

"You're a pure-blood?" she screeched. "A  _Princeps_ , too? Our last name isn't even Granger?!"

"Technically, it is. I changed my last name, legally, when I married your mother."

"But you're a Burke!" she argued with her dad. "One of the Sacred Twenty-Eight!"

"The last of his line," Lucius interjected with a slight sneer curling his lip.

Draco shot his father a quelling look, as he wriggled a finger in each ear to assure they worked properly. "But that's fine, seeing as how Hermione's lineage will carry on in our own, Father. We're just uniting two great houses."

Hermione's head spun towards him fast enough to give her whiplash. "Was that–" Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "I don't recall you actually asking me to marry you."

He laughed. "We bonded, Granger. It doesn't get more permanent than that."

Eyebrows shooting into her hairline, she looked at him as if she was daring him to say something else stupid so she could have an excuse to hex his 'bits' all over England. "A bond does not a marriage proposal make." She turned her nose up at him and folded her arms over her chest. "Don't assume you can boss me around now that we've consummated our relationship, Draco. I still have a wand, you know."

Granger's father let out a hearty laugh and clapped Lucius on the shoulder with a heavy hand. "You see, I knew our children would get along, old friend. You just needed a little more faith."

"As I recall, I wasn't given a choice," Draco's father hissed. "You shoved that  _rhythe_  down my throat and forced it on my son's shoulders!"

"Come now, Luc, surely you can see how good they are together? It all worked out in the end."

"It all worked out?" Lucius sputtered. "Y-You magically gagged me, you…you great woolly oaf!"

Hermione turned to look at the two bickering patriarchs of their ancient families, interrupting their fight. "What  _rhythe_?"

They instantly shut up and looked at her. Hermione's father was the first to look away, guilt flushing his features. "I made…arrangements…with the Malfoys, in advance, to ensure you made it through your Transition, my dove," her father explained. "I was sick when you were little. I thought… It was leukemia."

Draco felt Hermione stiffen next to him, and he reached out and took her hand in his to provide her support and his strength, should she need it.

"When? Why didn't you ever say anything?"

Her father held up a hand to quiet her barrage of questions. "You were eight, and you'd already manifested powerful magic. I didn't want to take the chance that you wouldn't have a strong partner come your Transition. I was afraid for you, especially since…well, you'd been conceived when I was a Squib."

She gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. "A Squib? But…how?"

The big man sighed and sat back in his chair, fiddling with his wand. "I'd met your mother by accident soon after graduating from Hogwarts. I'd had one too many to celebrate, you see, and left the Leaky Cauldron on foot. Got lost in Muggle London. She'd been kind enough to help me. Gave me a place on her sofa, so I didn't sleep in the gutter. I never left." He gave his daughter a shy smile. "She taught me that Muggles weren't so bad."

Lucius snorted, and Draco cast his father a baleful eye, letting him know his prejudicial commentary wasn't appreciated.

Hermione's father ignored his old classmate. He kept his attention on his daughter as he explained his darkest secret to her at long last. "At that time, the Dark Lord was starting to recruit from all the noblest families. By then I'd bonded to Maggie. I loved her and couldn't betray her, so I left the magical world and my name behind. I went off to Uni with your mum, and then we became dentists together. Opened a practice. Had you. The rest was history."

"Simply turning your back on the wizarding world wouldn't have made you lose your magic," she pointed out.

"You're right." He tapped his wand over his heart. "I used an ancient spell to cover up my magical signature, so Voldemort would never find me. It worked too well. I lost my magic. I got sick from that."

"Then, how did you get it back?" Hermione asked him, nodding towards his wand.

He stood up and crossed over to her, and knelt at her feet, taking her hands in his. "Your accidental magic at the age of eight was powerful enough to begin knitting my broken magical soul back together."

Everyone in the room gasped at that revelation, including Draco, who looked at his new wife— _for all intents and purposes, she was that, regardless of her insistence on tradition_ —in utter amazement.

"With the return of my magic, strength returned to my body as well," her father explained. "It took a dozen years, but there's no sign of the cancer in me, and my magic has nearly all returned to me. It cost you, however, in that it delayed your Transition by years, and for that I am sorry, but…" He smiled at her, pressing a kiss to the backs of her knuckles. "You saved me, my petal. How could I not want to do the same for you?"

"Oh, Daddy!"

Granger flung herself into her father's arms and cried. The big man clung engulfed his petite daughter in his bear-like embrace and together, they set the past to rest.

It wasn't that easy for Draco, who wanted explanations of his own.

He turned to his father, who slid his eyes to the side and would not meet his gaze. His mother did the same, so he depended upon his godfather for answers. Snape swallowed half a glass of Firewhisky before offering an account of that day, years earlier.

"Draught of Living Death," he explained. "Time delayed."

"You faked your deaths."

The three adults nodded.

"And you didn't think to let me in on the plan, or to contact me all these years later and let me know you weren't actually dead?"

He was doing amazingly well in controlling his temper, he thought.

"We  _couldn't,_ " his mother finally interjected, looking with disgust at her husband for not speaking up. "We were undercover, hunting down the Dark Lord's horcruxes for you and your Order."

Hermione gasped and pulled away from her father to stare at the three of them. "It was you. You're the one who told Shacklebolt about Hufflepuff's cup, and captured Nagini for Neville."

"For Slytherin's sake," his father snarled and waved his wand around, summoning forth his Patronus. It was a jackal.

Hermione squeaked and pointed at it. "It was  _you!_ " She looked at Draco's mother. "You're the fox, then?" His mother nodded. "And you're the doe?" she asked Snape.

Their old professor merely sighed, but it was clear the answer was 'yes'.

Hermione turned to her father. "So that makes you the lion."

"Chimera, actually," he admitted, and summoned one for her to see. "The tail, you see?"

"What in the bloody hell are you people talking about?" Draco finally asked, his patience having finally come to an end.

His witch reached out and took his hand. "Your parents and Professor Snape and my father…they helped us find the horcruxes, so we could make Voldemort mortal once more. I knew someone was feeding the Order information, but I didn't know their identity. Then, when Harry, Ron, and I struck out on our own, it was their four Patronuses who came to us and clued us in on certain things so we could find Slytherin's locket, Ravenclaw's diadem, and discover Nagini's true purpose as another horcrux. Without our parents and Professor Snape, we'd still be floundering around looking for clues, and the war would still be going on."

"And let's not forget our assistance in assuring Mister Potter slipped around the wards into the Manor through the hidden passage, shall we," Lucius added, sounding supremely smug. "That, I believe, was the end game to it all."

"You gave Harry his shot to face the Dark Lord here," Hermione stated with awe. "I wondered how he'd accomplished that feat. Not even his Invisibility Cloak could have gotten him through those spells. He'd needed someone on the inside."

Draco stood up, glaring at his parents and Snape. "Okay, so you helped Scarhead. How magnanimous of you all! Thanks ever so for helping us win the war. Still, you made me believe you were  _dead!_ Why the fuck would you do something like that?"

"I will not have that language in this house, Draco," his mother warned him, getting her back up.

Crossing his arms over his chest, he stared her down. "And I won't tolerate being lied to by my own parents."

"There was  _no_  choice, Draco," Lucius coldly replied. He'd been an icy, hard man before, and 'death' hadn't changed him a bit, it seemed. "It was the condition we agreed to when Scrimgeour approached us just after Albus Dumbledore's death."

"We four took the Unforgivable Vow," his mother stated, putting a hand on her husband's arm to persuade him to let her do the talking, "to go undercover to lend aid to the Order of the Phoenix in destroying the Dark Lord, and to have absolutely no contact with our children until the Dark Lord was dead."

"In exchange for what?" Draco roared.

"A full pardon for all of us, including you, should the war be won by Potter," Snape snapped, clearly irritated with Draco's insubordination.

That took Draco aback. "A pardon…for me? For what?"

The minute the words were out of his mouth, he knew: for all of sixth year. For the sin of letting the Death Eaters into Hogwarts, where they attacked students and staff. For the death of the Headmaster. For cursing Katie Bell, poisoning Ron Weasley, and using an Unforgivable on Madam Rosmerta. For killing Antonin Dolohov. Hell, he was sure that stealing Granger's first kiss was probably a charge the post-war Ministry would heap on him, too, if they could.

His anger deflated, knowing his parents and Snape had been forced by a very cunning Minister, who had been bright enough to recognise that the Order had been England's only real hope of defeating Voldemort and his army of darkness.

"What did you do to break the law?" Granger asked, staring askance at her father.

The man grinned, and he looked more shark than mammal right then. "I called a  _rhythe_ down on Lucius Malfoy."

"A crime well-deserved of an Azkaban sentence," Lucius stated, glaring at Hermione's father.

Draco considered that. "A desperate gamble," he finally said and held his hand out to Hermione. She slipped out of her chair and sat next to him on the chaise sofa, falling into his embrace. "Well played, sir."

Richard Granger Burke, his new, unofficial father-in-law, beamed at him with pride. "Still such excellent manners, lad. It does a man's heart good to see it." Clearing his throat, he lumbered to his feet and stood over them, his mood having quickly shifted so that now he was back to his jolly giant self. "There, you see, Luc. I told you they'd be like us!"

Hermione gasped and sat up straight. She looked between her father and Draco's father. "You're…you're my father's  _pyrocant._ And his  _bête noire!_ " she accused Lucius.

As Draco knew he and both his parents spoke fluent French and ancient wizarding terminology, they all understood the terms and their social context. Lucius snorted and looked away, but for the first time in Draco's memory, he could see his father's embarrassment in the pinking of his cheeks. He gaped at the revelation that his father actually liked Richard Grange Burke, despite his vitriolic response to the man.

More than liked, if his suspicions were correct…

Draco's mother laughed. "My, my, but you  _are_  clever and wise, aren't you, young lady?" she asked Granger, with an arch look over her shoulder at Snape.

The former Potions professor sniffed and turned back to the liquor caddy without another word.

Hermione's father reached out and touched his daughter's cheek with reverence. "That's my princess. Shining star of this generation."

Draco growled, his possessive instincts as a bonded male taking over. He tightened his hold on his woman. " _My_ princess _,_ " he stated, very firmly, leaving no room for doubt.

Hermione laughed as her father quickly moved away, warned off by her possessive lover. "Easy, Sir Galahad," she chided Draco gently, kissing his cheek. "I'm all yours. You saved me, as promised."

Draco took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He had, hadn't he? She was, wasn't she? Still… "I'm no 'white knight'," he groused, embarrassed at the beaming attention he was receiving.

Hermione assessed him with a roving eye. "No, you're more the anti-hero, aren't you? A 'dark lover'." She soothed his ruffled scales with a gentle kiss to his cheek. "And I'm no genteel princess, as I'm sure you're very aware."

He snorted. Understatement of the century. Princesses didn't pack such a nasty right hook.

"How about this instead? A dragon reforms his evil ways and becomes a dark knight," she amended their tale. "He meets a princess, who has been disguised as a lonely bookworm by her cunning father, The King of Slytherin. They fall in love—which had been The King's plan all along. They fight incessantly, though—which had been the dragon's father's plan all along. Altogether, they battle a dark lord who wants to enslave the world and they win. Then, they all live happily ever after."

Draco grinned down at her, his lover at long last. "My  _leelan_ , now that's one story I could believe."

_**~FIN~** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Orig. version 1.0 - 2 September, 2016  
> Revised version 2.0 - 1 January, 2017  
> 


	15. DELETED SCENE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, these were two chapters I’d written for the original fest piece, but I’d removed them both before submission because: a.) they slowed down the pacing of the story, and b.) adding them in put me way over the fest’s 25,000 word limit, and c.) removing them also allowed me to shift the fest piece’s timeline, so Hermione wasn’t an old lady before she got to Transitioning. Both chapters got the axe for all those reasons. Here they are for you now, however, as bonus material.
> 
> Both scenes take place in Autumn, 2001, soon after Hermione left Draco and the Order safe house behind to go Shell Cottage with her stew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the BDB universe, as a reminder from the Prologue chapter’s notes, a _pyrocant_ refers to a critical weakness in an individual. The weakness can be internal, such as an addiction, or external, such as a lover. In this fic, people destined to become mates are usually _pyrocants_ first (like Ginny and Harry). When people aren’t _pyrocants_ to each other (like, Hermione and Ron/Viktor, or Draco and Pansy), that usually signals that they aren’t destined to be bonded mates, either. 
> 
> Also, in the BDB universe, bonded mates become absolutely devastated by a mate’s loss, betrayal, or their death. In the series, this happened several times to various characters, but each individual handled the loss differently (e.g. going into a deep depression, becoming almost catatonic, lashing out, turning to drugs to numb the pain, becoming suicidal, screaming and crying for hours, begging for death, etc.). I borrowed that idea for this fic.

"I blame bananas."

Hermione put down the newspaper she'd been reading and looked up at her friend across the table. Ginny was rocking little Jamie to encourage his feeding at her breast, but it looked like the boy wasn't interested. Still, she tried to encourage him with cooing and baby-talking the child to death.

Shell Cottage was otherwise quiet that morning. Moody and Shacklebolt had left in the wee hours to run some campaign with Ron and Charlie. Harry was off with Lupin and Hagrid somewhere in the Forbidden Forest to treat with the Centaurs again. The rest of the Weasleys were scattered between safe houses. For the moment, the lack of distractions and noise were a blessing.

"Bananas? Why not pineapples?" she asked, playing along. "Or grapes?"

"Jamie hasn't tried those yet, but I'm sure they'll equally share the hate once he catches on to them." Ginny gave a long-suffering sigh. "For now, he likes bananas, a lot. As in, more than my milk."

Ah. Now the insanity made sense.

"He's weaning off you then?" Ginny nodded. "That's a good thing, I would think. He grows up into more solid foods, and you get your breasts back."

Her friend shrugged. "At least Harry will love that last bit."

"Ew." Hermione made a face. "No details about you two. You promised."

Deciding that Jamie wasn't interested in her nipple after all, Ginny covered her breast back up and brought him over to a playpen, setting him into it. She then barricaded it against his attempts to get free with several strong spells.

"Speaking of details… What happened between you and Draco last night?"

Hermione winced. It still stung that Ginny now referred to Malfoy by his first name, especially with that familiarity to her tone…as if she intimately remembered what he'd looked like naked, had recalled how his kiss tasted, how he had felt moving inside her…

"Nothing," she said a little too quickly, trying to quell the irrational jealousy that squirmed through her. "He showed up at Remus' cottage, Pansy was already there. Apparently, they decided to have sex. I showed up while they were busy, so I don't think they knew I was there at all. I left not too long after to come here. So we didn't interact at all."

Except for the note she'd left him. If he'd found it.

"Oh, Hermione." Her friend came to her and wrapped her arms around her, and the pity in her voice was almost more than Hermione could bear. "You heard them, didn't you?"

She sniffed, swallowing past the lump of hurt in her throat. "I'm sure the Dark Lord heard them all the way in Scotland."

"Men can be so stupid sometimes," her friend said with a sigh. "Listen, Malfoy may be a thoughtless, oversexed tomcat, but I think it's only because he believes you've moved on, so why shouldn't he? I mean, you  _are_  with Viktor, so it wouldn't be fair to demand monogamy from Draco, would it? He has needs, too."

"I'm very much aware of his needs, however, the entire basis of your argument hinges on the idea that he cares about me at all, which he clearly doesn't. Not anymore."

Ginny gave her a gentle squeeze. "Of course he does."

Hermione pulled away, too restless to remain seated any longer. Pacing over to the big bay window that was the showpiece of the kitchen, she stared out at the ever-shifting ocean just outside and down the beach, feeling as much tossed about in her life as a piece of driftwood upon those waves. "He hasn't spoken a word to me in two years, Gin. He's gone out of his way to avoid me, in fact. Last night was a fluke. He wasn't even assigned to that safe house, most likely at his request. He was only re-routed there."

"You haven't exactly tried to reach out to him either, though, have you?" her friend pointed out.

No, she hadn't. At first, it had been because she hadn't known what to say to him because it had hurt too much to talk about it, because it made it  _real_  that Ginny might very well be carrying his child. She'd hidden away like a coward instead, curling in on herself as if to deny that possibility, and her silence had stood as an insurmountable barrier that neither of them had been capable of overcoming. As the weeks had dragged on without contact, though, and as he'd been constantly sent on assignments by Moody and Shacklebolt, taking him completely out of her reach for months, that wall had grown wider and taller. It had dug a moat before it and decorated its brick with the thorns of resentment. It had become as seemingly impossible to scale as the war itself.

She knew it was her fault. Her lion's heart had failed her.

And now the serpent had slithered away, to play in other nests—ones filled with fully-Transitioned females who could easily satisfy its voracious sexual hunger.

"You're right. I did this to us. I ruined what we had."

Behind them, Jamie began snoring, his little nose making all the same ruckus as an Erumpent.

Thank Godric the child had been Harry's. If it really had been Draco's, Hermione wasn't sure she could have gotten over that. Being called 'Aunt Hermione' by the child of the man you loved…

Ginny gathered at her side again and leaned her taller head down onto Hermione's shoulder. "The ferrety git still loves you, 'Mione. We all know it."

That caused Hermione to laugh, and not in a joyous manner. "Yes, that explains his sexual gymnastics with practically every woman in the Order. No, Gin, I think he's long over me."

Still, her friend remained stubbornly convinced otherwise. "You're wrong. He did then and he still does now. He's just as stubborn as you in all this. He‒" Ginny hesitated as if considering how to tell her something they were both extremely uncomfortable discussing. "Hermione, we've never actually discussed that night, and I know it's painful for you to hear, but you need to know this: he'd closed his eyes and pretended he was with you during his Transition. I heard him whisper your name."

That truth snapped Hermione in half. It made her cry.

"And after, he got drunk for days. I'm talking falling down, sloppy drunk. It was clear he'd regretted the whole thing because it hadn't been you he'd given himself to." Ginny linked her arm through Hermione's. "So, as your friend, I'm asking you to please stop punishing him for it. He only did it to survive."

Her tears stung, and they made the world as blurry and wavy a mess as her heart. "You don't understand. I've never begrudged either of you for what happened then. It was necessary. Just like it was necessary for me to be there for Ron. I understand. I do." She swiped at her eyes over and over, but the flood seemed never ending as the infection in her soul was finally cut open and drained. "And I'm glad you were there for him, that you saved his life, Gin. I can never repay you for that. It‒" Here's where she choked, where the pain of her jealousy welled so greatly that revealing it shamed her. "It's just the thought of you carrying his baby, of his child calling you 'Mama', of him conceiving a child with anyone other than  _me_ …"

The thought had made her violently, physically ill when she'd heard the possibility.

Literally.

The first thing she did when she'd found out that night was to Apparate away. It hadn't even been a conscious thought, more a bout of accidental magic. She'd simply slipped into shock and then… _POP_. She'd ended up in front of the Tonks residence. Andromeda, who had been as much a surrogate mother to her as Molly Weasley, had taken one look at her and had led her inside her cottage.

Ted and Nymphadora had been there, too, along with little Teddy Lupin, newly born three months prior.

The moment Hermione had laid eyes on the baby, something inside her had come unglued. She'd run for the nearest loo to empty the contents of her stomach as they came rushing up from her belly, bringing her to her toes as she leaned over the toilet. After, she'd cried while sitting on the floor next to the bog. She'd spent several hours like that, retching and sobbing, a creature of pure feeling with no higher brain function. Her whole world had tumbled away beneath her, and it felt as if she was in perpetual free fall. Her rollercoaster world had gone all topsy-turvy.

The next few days had been a blur as she'd fallen into a deep depression. Andromeda had told her later that she'd been practically catatonic, barely responsive.

"Honestly, I hardly remember any of that time," she told Ginny as the story came pouring out of her at long last. "I don't remember much of anything until you came to find me."

"To tell you the baby wasn't Draco's," her friend said, staring at her in wide-eyed wonder. At Harry's insistence, Ginny had gotten a Muggle test done to determine paternity—an amniocentesis. The results had come back conclusively that the baby was a Potter. "Merlin, no wonder this has hit you so hard. Malfoy's your  _pyrocant!"_

Hermione reached into her pocket to extract a handkerchief. She dabbed at her eyes and nose with it. "No, he's‒"

The automatic protest died upon her lips as she stopped to really consider that possibility.

Was Draco her  _pyrocant?_

Yes, they'd had an unusual connection since the moment they'd first met on the train as children, and he'd tormented her in a variety of ways ever since. They'd circled each other all their young adult lives, antagonizing and challenging, drawn inexplicably to other another.

"But…that can't be because…that would mean‒"

"He's destined to bond to you someday," Ginny stated, filling in the gaps. Her best friend squeezed her arm again, this time in elation. "In fact, I'd say you were bonded already by the mad way you've been acting, except that can't happen until after you Transition."

Crazy. The idea was utterly insane.

"But…he's my  _bête noire_ ," she said, "the bane of my existence. How can he possibly be my  _pyrocant_ , too?"

That was the big question, wasn't it?

Behind them, Jamie woke up screaming.

Ginny hurried over to her son and lifted him from his pen. "What's wrong with my little precious?" she asked in that same silly voice she'd used earlier on him. "Does Jamie want to try feeding again?"

This time, when she lifted her son to her breast, he took to it like a drowning man to a life raft, forgetting all about the allure of bananas.

 

* * *

 

Pansy was draped across his lap, attempting to seduce him again, but Draco wasn't in any mood for her games.

Granger had dumped Krum. She was free.

Available.

As if it had a mind of its own, his cock went iron hard in his pants at the thought of being with her again. He glared the bloody thing into submission. He'd been here before, after all, and what had it gotten him? Hermione's bitter silence, two years of faceless females as poor replacements, and a heart that limped along in his chest.

"Well, hello there," Pansy said, snuggling her bum against his deflating erection.

Draco slid her back until she was balancing precariously on his knees and her arms had stretched as far out as they could without disentangling from around his neck. "Quit it, will you, Pans? I'm not in the mood right now."

"You're thinking about  _her_  again, aren't you? That nauseating Gryffindor bookworm," she accused and let her hands drop into her lap. He didn't have to look at her to know she was irritated and disappointed in him, as he'd always been able to feel her condemning scowl directed at him from across a room. "Don't bother denying it, Draco. We've been friends since we were in nappies."

He growled. What could he say? She'd nailed it.

With a resigned sigh, Pansy got off his lap and stood up. "Do you know why I always hated her?" she asked, heading for her coat, which was draped over a chair nearby.

"Because she's Muggle-born and was always better in classes than either of us combined?" he bit back.

Shrugging into her coat, she stared hard at him through smoky-lidded eyes. "Because she'd won your soul long before you'd ever given the rest of us a chance to earn your heart."

With that, she walked out of the room. A few seconds later, the sound of her calling out for the Burrow and Flooing away reverberated through the safe house.

Alone at last, Draco tossed his head back on the sofa's cushion and stared up at the grey ceiling far above his head. Grimmauld Place needed a serious dusting, plastering, and paint job, he thought as he let his gaze follow the spider web cracks into cobwebby corners. He'd have to remember to tell Potter to take better care of his extended family's property once the war ended.

The Floo sounded again as someone entered the house. As it was only connected up to two places—Shell Cottage and the Burrow—Draco was relatively sure that the person entering the kitchen downstairs was a friend, rather than a foe. Still, he took up his wand and stood in a quick flash, his training taking over. On light feet, he stepped to the backside of the door and waited for whoever it was to either announce themselves or enter the room so he could determine their identity.

"Draco?"

Relaxing, Draco dropped his wand and headed back for the couch, throwing himself down onto it. The antique wood creaked under his weight.

"Sitting Room," he shouted back.

A few moments later, his other childhood friend appeared in the doorway. Theodore Nott looked no worse for wear, despite the fact he'd just come in from a month-long assignment the night before. The guy shrugged out of his robes, tossing them over the arm of the other sofa, and then sat down across from Draco.

Immediately, he lit up a cigarette and took a deep inhale. The scent of demon-red smoke filled the air as a chimney trail escaped his lips and nostrils a moment later, along with an addict's deep sigh of contentment. "So, what'd you say to Pansy to get her so worked up?" he asked, crossing his legs and looking immensely comfortable in a room designed to make its visitors feel inconvenient. "She just burst into the Burrow ranting about what a beast you are and threw herself into Weasley's arms, faking a cry to get sympathy from the poor sap."

"Which Weasley?"

"Our King."

"Ah. Poor sod."

Theo nodded. "Yes, our girl's got her claws in him good and firm, I'd say. I think he's her ONE, if only she would douse that childhood torch she's carrying for you."

Draco shrugged, unconcerned with Pansy's stubbornness. She'd come around eventually to see the benefit staring her in the face. She had a pure-blood's nose for the advantage and an heiress' intuition for lost causes.

Weasley was doomed.

"I didn't say anything to her," he told his friend. "She's just waking up to reality, is all."

His best friend stared at him over the length of his cigarette as he took another drag from it.

"Granger."

Sighing, Draco ran a hand through his hair, scrubbing it back from his face in frustration. "She's left Krum."

"I'd heard."

" _She_  heard. Me and Pans, two weeks ago at Lupin's cottage." He grimaced, recalling the note she'd left him. "I didn't know it was her station that night."

Theo chuckled. "Apparently." His friend exhaled another lungful of death. "Maybe you ought to slow down, take matters  _in hand_  instead, as it were. You're beginning to get a reputation as bad as the twins."

Now there was a thought to make a man shudder. The Weasley twins were notorious rakes, slagging everything, male or female. Together.

"I haven't fucked anyone since that night," he admitted. Somehow, knowing Hermione had overheard him shagging Pansy into the mattress had made him feel the kind of guilt and regret that made a male hang his head. "I've…lost interest."

Which wasn't a negative, as far as he was concerned. As it was, sex had only ever been a physical relief, never an emotional release—at least, not from the unnatural hold Granger had held over him since he'd first taken her hand in a train car heading to Scotland.

Was it the influence of the  _rhythe_ , or was it something innate about her? Was it a little of both?

"My, my, how you've changed." Theo took a long pull on his cigarette. "I wonder what ol' Lucius or Narcissa would think of you now. Their precious pure-blood heir conquered by a no-name girl with Muggle parents."

Draco recalled the nasty things his father had said about Granger after her father had left them in the study that day, years ago. He'd been more upset at the idea of being tricked by his oldest friend than by his life debt being passed to his son, honestly. Perhaps that had to do with the fact that Granger's blood wasn't as 'dirty' as he'd been led to believe.

"There's something I need to tell you."

Theo waited, and when the rest wasn't as forthcoming, he nudged, "But?"

He'd been warned to keep his promise a secret, not just to protect the Malfoy reputation, but to protect Granger, personally. If anyone knew she was really Richard Granger Burke's only child, the heir to the Burke family dynasty, it could put her at risk. Many people in the Sacred Twenty-Eight had seen Burke as a blood-traitor, worse than the Weasleys, for Burke had supported the cause of blood-purity before inexplicably turning his back on it. They had voiced approval of his disappearance and presumed death years ago, believing the Dark Lord had finished him off for his disloyalty. If they knew the truth, that he hadn't actually died then, and instead had sired a child with a Muggle…

But Theo was his best friend, the brother he'd always wanted, and if there was one person he could trust in this world never to betray him, it was the man sitting across from him right then. Still, information could be gleaned by force with the right spells, and so precautions were necessary if he was to share his burden with a caring ear.

"But you have to take a Vow not to speak aloud to anyone else what I'm about to tell you."

Theo easily agreed, and the Vow was made on his magic and his wand.

And so Draco told him the tale of Granger's heritage and of the  _rhythe_  he had assumed. His best friend listened, and by the time the story was done, his cigarette had burned to its end. He put what was left out in the crystal ashtray sitting on the side table nearest him.

"Well, that is interesting," Theo stated, whistling in amazement. "And illuminating."

"How so?" Draco asked.

His friend's smirk was a carbon-copy of his own, and so he knew what was coming at him next would shock him to his core.

"It's obvious, isn't it? She's your  _pyrocant_ , and you're hers."

Annnnnnnnd he'd been right.

It took him a moment to pick his jaw up off the floor. "That's… No, I can't be."

Theo was nodding quite determinedly. "I'm afraid you are, old chum."

"But that would mean I'm meant to be‒"

He stopped, terrified at the thought of what it all really meant.

Theo's lips curled with a mysterious smile that reminded Draco too much of Hermione's half-Kneazle. "Congratulations. Most people never meet their bonded mate until it's too late to run...if they meet him or her at all." He stood and jerked his vest and shirt down until they lay properly in place once more. "Consider yourself one of the lucky ones, Draco. You've had more than a decade's notice to prepare for yours."

He gathered his robes and slung them over an arm before heading for the Sitting Room door to leave. "No, no, don't get up. Wouldn't want to inconvenience you or anything. I'll just let myself out."

Draco flipped him the two-fingered salute.

Theo gave a hearty laugh and started to head out.

"Wait, are you back to the Burrow?" Draco called out, stopping his friend a mere step into the hallway.

Nott turned back. "Yes, why?"

"Make sure Weasel-King decides to man-up, will you?"

His friend's grin this time was less feline, more Great White shark. "So it is commanded of me, so it will be done."

With that, he left.

A few moments later, the Floo downstairs activated, sending Nott on his way back to Ottery St. Catchpole.

Draco looked up once more at the dull ceiling above and wondered if what Theo had postulated was true or not…and whether it made any difference to Granger now. Could she forgive him for two years of reckless, selfish debauchery? He knew he was having— _had_  been having—a really difficult time accepting her and Krum. The thought of them together had driven him half-mad with jealousy for far too long...

Was this what a  _pyrocant_  was, then? Someone you desired to the point of madness?

If so, perhaps it was safer, and saner, not to love at all.

 


End file.
